


The Things that Change Me at Night

by kmlh17922



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Daily Prophet, Falling In Love, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, HP: EWE, Hand Jobs, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Stupidity, The Great Lake, The Marauder's Map, Thestrals, Virginity, Wandless Magic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-08-29 02:14:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 67,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8471653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmlh17922/pseuds/kmlh17922
Summary: Harry returns to Hogwarts to complete his education but struggles to cope now that the war is over.  Even though Ron and Hermione want to help Harry, it's Draco Malfoy who ends up helping the most.In edit as of 4/01/18.





	1. First Contact

Folding his legs beneath him, Harry lowered himself onto the pebbles of the north eastern bank. He combed his fingers through the rocks, inhaling sharply as the memory of holding a smoother stone flashed through his mind. No matter which tactics he employed, the most horrifying moments of the past few years would never stray too far from the forefront. He exhaled and released his grip.  
  
At least this was better than waking the entire dormitory with his screams. After the first few weeks, the other Gryffindor eighth year boys had settled into the routine of the school year, and their nightmares had tapered off into infrequent disturbances. Harry's, however, had neither decreased in frequency nor volume. Although his dorm mates told him it didn't bother them, Harry had seen a grouchy, tired Seamus grumbling to Dean and shooting Harry dirty looks across their breakfast on more than one occasion. Thus, Harry had taken to wandering aimlessly at night, usually stumbling to bed around four in the morning.  
  
Sometimes he found projects to occupy himself, like reorganizing several of the kitchen's cupboards or weeding Hagrid's pumpkin patch. The former, however, agitated the house elf contingency to the point that Harry was now shooed out of the kitchens almost as soon as stepping foot inside, and the latter caused Hagrid to drag Harry inside his hut to discuss the war. This mainly had entailed Hagrid sobbing while recalling Harry's limp body in his arms while Harry had tried desperately to focus on the bit of wall behind Hagrid's left ear and to recall flying instead. Regardless, it had lead to a week's worth of nightmares featuring a lonely walk into the forest and Hagrid's wet, red-ringed eyes. Needless to say, after that incident, he gave Hagrid's hut a wide berth during his his nighttime wanderings.  
  
Most nights he just walked around the castle or the grounds, often finding himself somewhere near the lake. At this time of year when the water was still warmer than the night air, the lake was covered in a rolling layer of steam, and especially on nights with a moon, it was beautiful. He would find a spot to sit, and he would watch the mist moving in the pale glow and do nothing but breathe. When memories would find him, which they invariably would, he did his best simply to roll them away from his mind like the fog rolling across the lake.  
  
“Aren't you afraid of werewolves?” someone behind him drawled.  
  
Harry flinched. Pulling his wand, he turned into a crouched position. Draco Malfoy stood just meters from Harry, casually leaning against an oak tree and smoking a cigarette.  
  
“What do you want, Malfoy?” Harry hissed, his ire born from being startled at two in the morning by none other than Malfoy, who had otherwise been doing his utmost to avoid even eye contact with Harry.  
  
Malfoy held up his hands, one empty and the other curled around his cigarette, to indicate that he did not have his wand ready to hex Harry. Harry relaxed and stood up, but kept his wand in hand.  
  
“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” he asked, this time with less ire.  
  
“Smoking,” he replied after taking a drag. There was a long pause in which Harry looked at him incredulously. “Not sleeping,” he added more quietly, dropping his gaze from Harry's. “I suspect that's a game you're familiar with.” Malfoy found Harry's eyes once more.  
  
Harry felt dizzy and vaguely numb, as though he had downed a bottle of firewhiskey and was just beginning to experience the effects or as if some enterprising troll had clubbed him across the forehead. Not only was Malfoy here by the lake at an ungodly hour, but he was smoking a cigarette like a muggle and conversing pleasantly with Harry as if the past seven years hadn't occurred.  
  
“What?” Harry said after an embarrassingly long pause.  
  
Malfoy pulled on his cigarette again and released the smoke into the night air. Harry followed the swirl until he could no longer distinguish the difference between the fog over the lake and his vapor. “I see you almost every night. I just assumed you had also given up sleep as a bad habit.”  
  
“I rather think sleep has given up me,” Harry grumbled softer. He felt Malfoy’s eyes on him while he scuffed the toe of his left shoe across the pebbles. It was a jarring thought, that Malfoy had seen him wandering every night. The solitude of his wanderings had provided him with relief from the barrage of conversations, noises, and obligations that plagued him during the day, but now knowing that someone – Malfoy, he corrected – had been observing his nightly pattern, perhaps even watching him, he felt intruded upon.  
  
“So I take it you’re not afraid of the werewolves, then?” Malfoy tried again.  
  
“What are you on about?”  
  
Exhale. “It’s a full moon.” Another drag. “And you’re standing, oh,” he turned his head to glance at the dense woods behind him, “four meters from the Black Forest.”  
  
Harry couldn’t tell if Malfoy was serious or attempting humor. “I think I’ve given up fear as a bad habit as well.”  
  
Malfoy exhaled for an excessively long time, until his breath carried no trace of smoke. “I wish I could also,” he said quietly but with bitterness. Harry wasn’t sure if he was supposed to have heard it.  
  
Confused, Harry asked, “Then why are you standing so close to the forest?”  
  
Another pull and swirl of smoke. “Oh, I’m not afraid of werewolves, Potter,” he replied louder and with a trace of amusement.  
  
“Okay.” Harry paused, wondering why Malfoy was here and what he wanted. “What are you afraid of then?”  
  
“Everything,” he replied with a grin so wide it might have been a grimace. Suddenly, the cigarette was thrown into the air, and Malfoy flicked his wand to vanish it. He made eye contact one more time, gave a small nod to Harry, and then turned on his heel and sauntered away. Harry watched him go until he could no longer make out his blond hair amongst the shadows at the edge of the castle.  
  
The last five minutes felt as though they had been torn straight out of a strange dream. Still, it was better than the nightmares, Harry thought absently. He stared blankly into the forest for a few minutes, and then turned and followed Malfoy’s footsteps back to the castle, slumping into his bed without removing his cloak. He was asleep minutes later and dreaming of chasing silver trails of cigarette smoke into the forest.


	2. What was I Thinking?

Draco awoke oddly refreshed. He stretched his arms above his head and pushed his toes to the bottom of the four-poster. He was too tall for this bed now, really, but despite the size differential, there was a comfort in waking up surrounded by deep emerald hangings and sunlight streaming through the lake and the glass wall behind the beds. Since returning to Hogwarts, however, his bed had been a source of discomfort more often than not. Draco had hoped that the nightmares might stop once he removed himself from Malfoy Manor, where he couldn't even see a teacup without it stirring images of war atrocities. It seemed that no matter the location, his brain was capable of conjuring plenty of horrific memories, and all the more effectively when he closed his eyes at night.  
  
But not last night. In fact, Draco could not recall any dreams last night. He frowned, trying to remember what he had done differently before going to sleep. Perhaps he could bottle it and replace his sleeping draughts, which might as well have been pumpkin juice for all their assistance. They had, of course, helped in the beginning, after the battle for Hogwarts, when the nightmares had been the worst, but Draco’s body had become tolerant to their effects by the time his family and he were under trial. Now they only dulled the dreams, making the edges and spikes less sharp, which kept him from waking but left him drowning in despair instead.  
  
He walked through the previous evening. Like most nights, he went to the library after dinner and secluded himself at a table in an alcove near the back. He remembered Granger tugging a very willing Weasley by his tie toward the back rows of the library and giggling, a sight which surprised him due to Granger’s forwardness and because the pairing actually pleased him for unknown reasons.  
  
When the library closed, Draco had returned to his dormitory, avoiding the unfriendly glances from students in the library as well as in the Slytherin common room. He was used to being unpopular with everyone post-war. He had taken a shower, then closed his bed hangings around him, wrote a letter to his mother, and studied until he was sure everyone was in bed, at which point he left to explore the grounds, smoking cigarettes periodically. And he had spoken to Potter.  
  
Adrenaline flooded his veins upon remembering his interaction with Potter by the lake. Had he truly discussed his nightmares and fear with the Savior of the Wizarding World? What had possessed him to approach Potter? Although, he had responded with only mild hostility. Mainly, Draco got the impression that Potter had been confused by the interaction. Embarrassed, Draco pulled the blankets over his face. He allowed himself a moment of self-pity, and forced himself out of bed, noticing that Blaise and Theo had already gone to breakfast and wishing desperately that it was the weekend so he wouldn’t have to come face-to-face with Potter today.


	3. Life Continues

Harry sat down beside Ron and across from Hermione, who abruptly stopped talking and turned pink while Ron conspicuously stuffed an entire sausage into his mouth. Harry groaned inwardly. He had become accustomed to Ron and Hermione having private conversations, but he wished they wouldn't try to cover it up each time they were caught; that only succeeded in amplifying the awkwardness.  
  
Harry wondered what they had been talking about this time. Likely his failure to adjust since the war. That was a favorite topic of discussion, although they often tried to include him in those conversations. When it became clear to Hermione that Harry wasn't recovering, she amassed a list of PTSD therapies, both magical and muggle, which she referred to as “plans for Harry's success.” Most of the time, Harry would nod along as she described a new strategy and then avoid the topic for the rest of the week.  
  
Or they could have been discussing his breakup with Ginny, although Ron usually led the charge on that topic. Hermione seemed content to let the two of them lead separate lives, but Ron was in denial. At first, he would pretend that Harry and Ginny hadn't ended their relationship, suggesting double dates and feigning deafness when someone tried to correct him. After two weeks of this, Harry had enough. He sat Ron down in the common room and practically shouted that he and Ginny would not get married and have babies. That lead to a lot of snickering, a general atmosphere of awkwardness, and Ron asking a lot of questions that began with “But, why...?” Eventually, Ginny lost her temper, told Ron to grow up, and stormed out of the common room.  
  
Since then, Ron had continued pressing Harry to talk with Ginny, sit with her in the common room, and study with her, all the while surreptitiously watching them in hopes that their recovering friendship would spark a revival of their romance. But as much as Ginny and Harry had tried in the first few months, both of them had changed too much during the war and were no longer capable of offering the comfort the other needed. He still wanted Ginny to be happy and safe, but he no longer felt he was the person who could give her that.  
  
It was also possible that they were discussing the war or post-war politics, both topics with potential for triggering bad memories. He tried to hide his reactions but regularly flinched if the conversation reminded him of a fight, a death, or a long sleepless night. They avoided talking about anything that had potential to upset him now.  
  
Or perhaps he was being self-centered and they had been talking about their own relationship. They didn't like to be public about their affections, but they often sat closer than strictly necessary or held hands under tables, and a few times, Harry had caught them kissing. He had tried to tell them their relationship didn't bother him and that he was happy for them but only succeeded in making them uncomfortable. So he decided to leave it be and change the subject.  
  
“When's the potions essay due, Hermione?” Harry asked while helping himself to eggs and toast.  
  
“Friday,” she replied, passing a napkin to Ron, who had dribbled pumpkin juice down his chin in his haste to wash down the sausage. She turned back toward him, “You look well rested this morning,” she said with apparent surprise. “Sleep well?”  
  
“Actually, yes,” Harry replied. He didn't see the sense in adding that he hadn't slept very many hours, even if the sleep itself was devoid of nightmares. Loath as he was to admit, the source of his restful night was his mysterious interaction with Malfoy. The version of Malfoy by the lake had offered a distraction large enough to suppress the terrifying images that made their presence known when he closed his eyes. But truth be told, Malfoy's appearance last night was still distracting him this morning. Had it really happened?  
  
“Harry? Are you listening?” He forced his attention back to the present.  
  
“Sorry, what?”  
  
Hermione rolled her eyes. “I was just saying that I've already finished my potions essay because there's an info session on the internships with the Wizengamot on Thursday, so I wanted to make sure my schedule was clear that evening.”  
  
“You know you would have finished it anyway, even if you didn't have that meeting on Thursday,” Ron pointed out, and Harry noticed that affection colored his tone. Hermione tried to protest but both Harry and Ron fixed her with looks of disbelief until she relented.  
  
“Oh, fine, I probably would have, but only because I don't wait until the last minute for everything like you two.”  
  
“Why would we do our work early when we know that if we wait, you'll be there to help us?” Ron responded. Harry chuckled lightly, but when Hermione's smile turned stern, he jumped in to change the subject.  
  
“So is that where you've decided you want to go next year?”  
  
“I'm still not completely sure. You know I've been looking into becoming an unspeakable, but I don't know that I'd be able to stay quiet about the work I was doing, especially if it was as interesting as some of the research they do in the Department of Mysteries. I think I've decided I don't want to go into healing. Of course, I find the theory quite interesting, but I'm not sure I have the temperament to deal with difficult people all day – ” Hermione stopped short as Ginny sat down beside her.  
  
“Hey, Hermione. Harry. Ron.” Ginny narrowed her eyes in warning while addressing her brother, clearly not over their last confrontation about her love life. “Are you talking about that internship?” she asked, turning back to Hermione and pouring herself some pumpkin juice.  
  
Hermione resumed describing her career options with gusto, and Harry tried to listen but found his mind wandering to the comfortable chaos in the Great Hall beyond, feeling slightly guilty that he couldn't give his undivided attention to her despite all she had done for him over the last year. And the six before that.  
  
A few seats away, Dean, Neville, Dennis Creevy, and a few of Dennis’s friends from his year were watching Seamus charm Dennis's pygmy puff to do back flips. Harry had expected Dennis to struggle more acutely than some of his classmates after his brother's death in the spring, but Gryffindor had been supportive of Dennis’s return to Hogwarts. Seamus and Dean in particular had taken a liking to him and had made it their mission to help him readjust. Usually, this involved the three of them getting into trouble for harmless if not mildly disruptive pranks, but regardless, it had been nice to see a smile on Dennis's face.  
  
He chuckled as Professor McGonagall walked by and said, “Not an appropriate use of a pygmy puff, Mr. Finnegan,” then pursed her lips and added rather begrudgingly, “but impressive charm work.”  
  
He also noticed that Dean was shooting sidelong glances at Ginny every few minutes. Harry thought he ought to feel jealous about Dean's plays for Ginny's attention now that their separation had been so publicly announced, but he honestly just wanted her to be happy. Ginny, unfortunately, seemed rather oblivious to the whole endeavor.  
  
She was less oblivious to Cormac McLaggen's efforts to woo her. McLaggen, with all the subtlety and humility of a puffed up Hippogriff, had been cornering Ginny for weeks, bragging about Quidditch training he'd done over the summer, flying manouever's he'd perfected, and his prospects for professional Quidditch teams post-Hogwarts, which was especially rich considering he'd never made the Gryffindor Quidditch team. At first, Ginny had supposed that McLaggen was just buttering her up since she'd been given the captaincy and he wanted to make keeper. However, his secondary motive became clear when he repeatedly offered to take her on his broom to show her his new moves while grinning lecherously. For his part, Harry just enjoyed the show, relishing McLaggen approaching Ginny at mealtimes and watching for the telltale eye-twitch as her patience waned.  
  
This morning, McLaggen only briefly accosted Ginny because the smarmy bastard apparently had to finish “setting his hair” before his first class, but Harry noticed that Dean looked rather displeased at McLaggen's presence and relieved when he left and Ginny visibly shuttered. Ron looked downright murderous.  
  
Ginny turned to Ron and said, “I really do wish eighth years could play this year, so you could be keeper and I could ignore that arsehole.” Ron was mollified. “It'd be easier if he was horrendous, but he's actually an okay keeper. Not as good as you,” she hastened to add when Ron's thunderous expression returned.  
  
“I'd just like to remind you all that I beat him fair and square at tryouts two years ago,” he stated, causing Hermione to shift in her seat.  
  
“Yes, well, I'm worried no one better will tryout and I'll be stuck with him all year.” She sighed and Hermione patted her arm sympathetically, only too aware of how it felt to be on the receiving end of McLaggen's romantic designs.  
  
Ron and Ginny continued to generally abuse McLaggen with Hermione contributing now and again, but Harry's attention was stolen by a shock of white-blond hair at the Slytherin table. Malfoy, having arrived late, was picking at dry toast. Harry couldn't help but notice his hair was disheveled, like he had been in a rush that morning. Normally it was perfectly maintained as if Malfoy had verbally abused each hair on his head until it agreed to stay in place. Had Malfoy not slept well after their conversation last night? Either way, Harry thought his hair looked more interesting like this, a little messy and falling in his eyes.  
  
“Don't start that again, mate.” Harry turned to regard Ron, who had just poked him in the ribs.  
  
“Don't start what?”  
  
“The Malfoy thing.”  
  
“The Malfoy thing?”  
  
“You know, where you obsessively watch his every move and follow him around the castle.”  
  
“I'm not watching his every move,” Harry tried to protest.  
  
“Yes, you were. You've been staring at him for the last five minutes.”  
  
Had it really been that long? Harry turned to Ginny and Hermione for help, but Hermione looked pointedly away. “Not getting involved,” Ginny muttered.  
  
“I'm just saying, he's not plotting anything this year, and even if he were, the whole school is watching him now. Especially the teachers. No one trusts that slimy git,” Ron added.  
  
“I'm not watching him,” Harry reiterated. “I was just staring into space.”  
  
“Coincidentally in the direction of Malfoy?”  
  
Harry shrugged. “If you say so.”  
  
“Alright, I just think we should put that old rivalry to rest. We're eighteen. We're adults. We'll politely ignore him and he'll ignore us,” Ron said, assembling his features into the expression he used when he thought he was being particularly wise.  
  
Harry laughed. “That's very mature coming from the bloke who just shoved an entire sausage in his mouth.”  
  
Ginny snorted. “I'm sorry I missed that,” she said, while Hermione fought to keep a small smile from her face.  
  
“Come on,” Hermione cut in as Ron opened his mouth to defend himself. “We should get ready for transfiguration or we'll be late.”  
  
“See you later,” Ginny called out as the three of them left the table and she slid down the bench towards a very pleased Dean. As they left the Great Hall to make their way back toward Gryffindor tower, Harry resisted the urge to look back at the Slytherin table one more time.


	4. Partial Transfiguration

Draco decided to pretend his mind had manifested the Potter incident, and now he would return to thoroughly ignoring the arrogant prick. Unfortunately, this was easier said than done. He had a vast array of unresolved emotions when it came to Potter. In his head, there were two versions. There was the Potter who whored for attention and engendered admiration with a small amount of talent and even more preferential treatment; this was the Potter who had drained Draco’s blood and nearly killed him two years ago. Then there was the Potter who descended through fire, defying death itself, and yanked Draco into safety. How in the hell was he supposed to reconcile the two?

But now there was a third Potter looking to rent room inside his brain, one who ambled aimlessly at night and looked as though he was miles away from everyone else during the day. Potter still had hordes of adoring fans, of course, but Draco noticed after the first week, they stopped approaching him directly. He had seen Granger and Weasley interceding on Potter's behalf, and wondered if they had perhaps persuaded McGonagall to decree that Harry bloody Potter was off-limits to anybody he hadn't personally deemed worthy of his attention. Yet, Potter himself appeared oblivious to the ever-hovering admirers, so long as they weren't touching him or propositioning him or looking to obtain autographs. Draco had watched Potter shuffle past clusters of simpering girls in such a daze that he didn’t so much as glance in their direction, no matter how grating their giggles were. On some days, he was distant even from his friends, and Draco noticed they had to repeatedly bid for his attention before capturing it. This third version of Potter was as unaware as he was aloof, and Draco couldn’t stop wondering where his mind went when it wandered.

He shook these thoughts from his head, tired of thinking about Potter. He had arrived nearly half an hour early for transfiguration so he could reap the benefits of an empty classroom. For one, with nobody else present, he could choose whichever seat he pleased. He usually selected a spot in the back, where he was able to watch everyone but others would need to swivel their heads awkwardly to gape at him. Today, however, he sat in the second row on the far side of the classroom and had angled the chair so he couldn't see the door. This was a preemptive measure to spare himself the humiliation of seeing Potter.

It was an unfortunate side effect of post-war Hogwarts that all returning eighth years had classes together. Gone were the days of only seeing Gryffindors during potions and mealtimes. It meant the professors had relinquished one of their free blocks to offer the extra section, but they decided unanimously that combining seventh and eighth year N.E.W.T. classes would be detrimental both due to class size and circumstance. Draco had considered asking if he could swap classes and be taught alongside the seventh years instead. The students in the year below him seemed to tolerate him better, likely because they hadn’t been so well acquainted with Draco’s most regrettable moments.

Draco tapped his quill against the table, agitated by his own self-pity. He huffed a frustrated sigh and flipped open his text book, thinking he could study until class to keep his mind busy, but studying was no longer the distraction it had been at the beginning of the year. He spent the majority of his free hours poring over notes and texts and practicing spells until he felt his brain might explode from boredom. Instead, Draco found himself doodling in the margins of his notes. He peered down at the lower left corner to focus on his creation. A dragon, and by the looks of it, a Hungarian Horntail. He gave his wand a flick and felt the corners of his mouth turn up as the dragon unfurled its wings and stretched. Another flick of his wrist and the dragon straightened her tail, took a deep breath, and then spewed a ring of fire over bullet points and spell descriptions. After a few seconds, the flames fizzled out, revealing a slightly smoking but otherwise unharmed piece of parchment. The dragon sulked, turning her back on the notes, and Draco smirked at her insolence.

Snatching up his quill once more, he scribbled a stick figure seated on a broom in the opposite corner. He paused for a moment and considered the new drawing before adding a mop of hair, glasses, and a lightning scar. The dragon, curious about her new paper mate, turned to regard the boy. Draco waved his wand and the boy went into a dive, soaring around the enraged dragon which let out another swirl of fire in response. Draco suddenly felt ill, remembering a similar scene in which a scar-headed boy swooped through fire on a broom to save him. He waved his wand a final time and vanished the mess, leaving behind a perfectly unmarred set of notes.

Luckily, he did not have to entertain himself for much longer before class would begin. Other students were starting to arrive, and although Draco was trying not to listen for him, he was aware of Potter the moment he stepped into the classroom. To be fair, it was not Potter he heard first, but Granger, animatedly detailing the merits of the Wizengamot internship. Draco had seen posters advertising it, and despite being initially interested, he decided there was no way the Wizengamot would accept ex-Death Eaters. He heard Weasley offer encouragement, and when asked his opinion, Potter said, “I think you'll be great at whatever you decide to do. They'd be crazy not to take you.” He spoke with such warmth that Draco began imagining the expression that might be on Potter’s face as he spoke but stubbornly resisted the urge to turn around and check if he was correct.

There was a thunk and a scraping of chair legs to his right. Draco turned to see Pansy sitting at the seat next to him, with Blaise and Theo at the next two desks. In his periphery, he could make out the Golden Trio just a row behind him and to the right.

“Did somebody piss in your tea this morning? You look positively unhinged.” Pansy teased.

“Good morning to you too, Pansy.” Draco responded with stiff propriety.

“Somebody's touchy,” Pansy said with obvious delight. She turned toward Blaise and Theo. “You'll have to be extra gentle with Draco today. He's feeling a little sensitive.”

“Well, we can't all have your cheery disposition in the morning,” Draco drawled, feigning boredom.

“Don't worry, Pansy, we'll be kind to Draco. That is, of course, if we see him at all. The man is never around anymore. So mysterious these days,” Blaise replied.

Theo leaned forward to add, “It _is_ hard to be nice to someone you never see. Where were you last night?” Draco hadn’t realized they'd noticed his absence. They had both been asleep when he left.

Pansy looked as though Christmas had come early. “Was Draco being naughty last night? Out of his bed after curfew?” she paused for a moment as an idea struck her and then exclaimed too loudly, “Does Draco have a girlfriend?”

He emphatically shook his head no, but it was too late. He noticed Potter shift in his seat, turning toward their conversation. “No.”

“She keep you up at night, Draco?” Theo suggested.

“It would explain why your hair's a wreck this morning,” Blaise conceded.

Draco rolled his eyes at Blaise and sighed. “No. There's no girl.”

“A boy, then?” Pansy asked gleefully.

Draco groaned. “No. Leave it alone.” The three of them laughed. “I hate you all,” Draco concluded quietly as McGonagall entered and swept her way to the front of the classroom, her presence silencing everyone effectively. Draco had never been so glad to see her in his life.

“Good morning,” she began brusquely, and Draco felt himself relax. “We will continue discussing partial human transfiguration, beginning where we left off last time. For the last half hour of class, you will split into pairs and practice transfiguring another person, which is simpler and more straight-forward than transfiguring oneself.” She turned towards the blackboard and began writing. Draco focused on the lesson, diligently taking notes and thanking the heavens that he didn't have to interact with his friends or Potter so long as McGonagall was lecturing, when she suddenly stopped talking mid-sentence.

“Mr. Potter, would you care to explain what is so captivating about Mr. Malfoy's right ear?” Draco clenched his jaw and felt his cheeks flood with warmth but continued to stare resolutely as his notes even as he felt his classmates' eyes boring holes into his skull. Merciless tittering flooded the classroom and Draco thought he'd never been so mortified. Worse still, even as the laughter died down, there was no response from Potter. What was he thinking right now? Why was he prolonging this humiliation?

“Er, nothing. Sorry, Professor,” Potter eventually choked out, clearly just as embarrassed as Draco. The tittering crescendoed again, until McGonagall told Potter to focus on the lesson unless he wanted to make up the time in detention.

“I expect all of you to have made significant progress on your partial human transfiguration by the end of class,” she barked, damping down the whispers, and then she continued on with the lesson as if she hadn't just humiliated the both of them. But that was one thing Draco had always liked about McGonagall. She was equally stern with everyone, even Boy Wonder.

When it was time to split into pairs and practice the technique, Draco made eye contact with Pansy, who put on a big show of sighing and saying, “Oh, I suppose,” but couldn't keep a smirk off her face. The two of them stood up to face each other, and Draco indicated that Pansy should try first. They were meant to be changing their partner's arms into either squid tentacles or lizard limbs. Pansy stood with her wand raised and her eyes closed in a uniquely Pansy form of concentration, which morphed her normally pleasant features into those of a constipated badger. Draco was about to tease her when she non verbally cast the spell. He felt the magic tingle lightly, but his arms were otherwise unchanged. Pansy expressed her displeasure by quietly cursing.

Draco attempted the spell next, hoping that his expression of concentration wasn't quite so demented, but his spell-work fell flat as well. They continued to take turns, until they were interrupted by McGonagall awarding five points to Gryffindor for Granger succeeding on her third attempt. Draco turned to see that Potter's arms were now rather narrow with dark green scales and long bulbous fingers. Potter was struggling to hold onto his wand. It seemed lizard appendages were not designed with spell-work in mind. Granger promptly earned five more points for successfully changing his arms back to a pair that looked much more natural on his body. Glowering, Draco turned back to Pansy with renewed vigor.

He cast the spell again, this time more forceful and determined, and was pleasantly surprised when Pansy's arms became purple and scaly. He had been trying for blue, but purple was close in hue, he supposed. He had just reversed the spell when he heard Granger shout out, “Careful, Harry!” Draco grinned. It seemed that the Chosen One was still struggling.

The next bit of excitement occurred only seconds after Potter's mishap. Longbottom, in the row behind Draco and Pansy, had apparently aimed poorly and instead of turning Boot's arms into tentacles had managed to change Pansy's chair into a large squid. McGonagall vanished the confused invertebrate and chastised Longbottom, who flushed and apologized profusely. Boot appeared to be legitimately terrified of partnering with Longbottom, and Draco didn’t blame him. Draco's respect for Longbottom had increased tenfold over the last year, but it seemed Longbottom’s newfound sense of courage had not much improved his skill with a wand. Draco wanted to advise him to flick his wand more gently and to picture both the wand motion as well as the result of the spell while casting, but realized it would be a waste of breath. Longbottom wouldn't be receptive to advice from Draco after all that had transpired the previous year.

Draco snapped out of his reverie when his arms were suddenly swapped for magenta tentacles and his wand began to slide down the smooth surface of his new skin. He attempted to curl the tentacle around his wand before it fell, but Draco’s tentacle-eye coordination was found lacking, and the wand clattered to the floor despite his best efforts. Pansy snorted as Draco bent down to retrieve his wand. He first tried prodding it with the tip of a tentacle but eventually progressed to using both tentacles together as a makeshift scoop. This strategy, while the best Draco could fathom, was only effective in solidifying his appreciation of the human skeletal system. “This is so stupid,” he complained. “Why would anyone transfigure themselves into a form they can’t reverse on their own?” Pansy laughed harder as he continued to struggle, tears coming out of her eyes.

“Oh for heaven's sake, change me back,” Draco snapped after spending a full minute on the floor to no avail. She wiped away the tears, and then flicked her wand to restore Draco's arms. He stretched his fingers and then picked up his wand. It had been a strange sensation, feeling his own fingers reemerging. It was as if they had been there all along but were in hibernation, and now they felt slightly stiff from the disuse though it had only been minutes.

McGonagall called the class to order, issued homework, and subsequently dismissed them. Pansy waited for Draco, but he was dawdling, hoping that if he took long enough, he could avoid Potter until his next class. Eventually, she lost her patience. “How long does it take you to pack up? Stop being so damn fussy and just shove them in your bag.” She waved her hand at Draco’s notes, book, and quill.

“Go on then. I'm not going back to the common room anyway.”

“Oh?” Pansy cocked an eyebrow.

Draco rolled his eyes. “I’m not meeting an illicit lover, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m going to the library to study.”

“Again? All you do these days is study. You should come back and hang out, Draco,” her tone indicated exasperation, but when Draco glanced up at her he could see concern plainly on her face. 

He softened his defensive posture, but shook his head and replied, “Not today. But thank you.” His tone was more intense than the situation required, but that was the way they had always interacted, bottling up their emotions and expressing them with as much subtlety and convolution as possible. It was utterly exhausting at times.

Pansy nodded once then spun around and strutted out of the classroom. Taking her advice now that he was alone, Draco abandoned all fussiness and stuffed the remaining items in his bag haphazardly. He headed to the door, but froze immediately upon exiting. To his dismay, the Golden Trio stood just to the left of the doorway. Potter had his back to Draco, but Granger and Weasley were facing toward him.

“You go on ahead. I'll meet you at the library. There's something I have to do first,” Potter was telling them.

Weasley shrugged but Granger looked at Potter with motherly concern before casting a searching glance toward Draco. Apparently satisfied that he wouldn't be attempting to murder the Boy Who Lived, she told him they would be near the arithmancy section, and the pair turned and walked down the corridor.

Draco took this as his cue to slither away, although admittedly in the opposite direction of the library. However, he hardly thought that was an option now that he knew the Golden Trio would be studying there. He silently turned and stepped softly along the stones, hoping he'd go unnoticed.

“Wait!”

Draco stopped walking down the corridor, standing stock-still before forcing his features to become neutral and turning to face Potter. He raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

Draco had often been perplexed by Potter's eyes, how they shone through his hideous lenses and were subtly amplified in a way that made them seemed grander than they actually were. Now he found those bright, green eyes peering into his from several meters away and completely indecipherable. Draco's heart pounded. Was Potter going to tell him off for last night? Or worse, would he charge Draco with crimes he had committed over the last several years? This was why he had been avoiding Potter since returning to Hogwarts. Nothing good could come of interacting with this boy who knew his transgressions so well.

Potter continued to stare at Draco, mouth slightly agape and face empty of emotion, and as the silence persisted, Draco was filled with a desire to run away and avoid this mess. His anxiety became almost unbearable. 

“Well? What is it that you want, Potter?” No response. “I haven't got all day.” More silence. “You see, we've got Charms in a few hours, and I doubt Flitwick will excuse my absence, even if I tell him that the Chosen One required my presence merely to gape at me.” The best defense was a good offense.

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” Harry spat, his eyes now squinted in anger.

“Gladly,” Draco returned, and he spun around to continue down the corridor again.

“Wait!” Harry chased after Draco, intercepting him from the front and stopping him in his tracks. “I'm sorry.”

More silence. Finally, Draco hissed, “Well?”

Potter looked down. “I don't know.” Draco huffed a sigh. “I, er, just wanted to tell you that – " He broke off once more, “that I lied last night.”

Draco's eyebrows twitched upward, but he continued to stare at Potter, who met his eyes once more. “I am afraid of things. Most things, really. And no, before you ask again, not werewolves.” He grinned, and Draco had to bite his cheek to keep from smiling back. “But it's why I don't close my eyes anymore,” he added more seriously.

There was a long silence after this admission, in which Potter's eyes searched Draco's, as if Potter was daring Draco to mock him for his fears. “How very un-Gryffindor of you,” Draco teased.

Potter's lips twitched. “They'll probably kick me out any day now.” The two continued to stare at each other. Finally, Potter glanced down the corridor. “I should go. I guess I'll see you later, Malfoy,” he said without actually looking at Draco, and then followed in the direction Granger and Weasley had disappeared. Draco remained in the center of the hallway, confused by the lack of animosity in Potter's voice as he had spoken Draco's surname. Eventually, he gathered his wits and decided to return to the Slytherin common room after all.


	5. A Truce of Sorts

It was colder and windier than the previous night, giving the mist rising off the lake a denser, more assuming presence. Each time the breeze mounted, the low cloud billowed over the shoreline and into the woods, and Harry, sitting in the same place as the night before, shivered as the mist rolled over him. Although the fog was so thick in places that it was almost opaque, when it traveled close to him, it dissipated, becoming translucent, the only indication of its presence the dampness that settled on his clothes. Briefly removing his wand from his pocket, Harry cast a warming charm, feeling it wrap around him as if a sheet enveloping his body in a cocoon of warmth. But the issue with these charms was their longevity. They lasted only minutes before subsiding and leaving him bare to the elements again.

He had been sitting there for just under an hour, tentatively hoping that Malfoy might materialize again. It was ultimately why he'd chosen this spot, although when he had arrived, he pretended it was for the scenery. Truth be told, the fog, though lovely, was thoroughly unnerving him. Perhaps it was that the chilly, creeping mist hinted at the night Sirius had nearly been kissed on an adjacent shore, or the idea of someone watching him still niggling his brain, but Harry couldn't reproduce the same peace of mind.

He was minutes away from succumbing to the voice of reason in his head, which had been urging him to seek warmth, safety, and scenarios in which he could be sure no one was stalking him, when he heard snapping twigs and rustling leaves to his left. Reaching into to his pocket once more, he gripped his wand. He flitted his eyes towards the source of noise, seeing a flickering shadow near to the spot Malfoy had stood the previous night. Against all reason, Harry smiled.

“Good evening, Malfoy,” he hedged, fingers still curled defensively around his wand. There was no response, but when he turned to inspect the intruder, he saw blond hair and a startled expression dissolving into a smirk. A swooping sensation rose in his stomach, sending a wave of warmth swimming through his torso.

“I gather your head's not as far up your own arse tonight.” Malfoy's voice was softer, teasing, and unaccompanied by the typical sneer.

“Someone recently pointed out to me that anybody could be in these woods, creepily watching me. I was on my guard.” Harry grinned up at Malfoy. “That, and you clomp around like a bloody giant.” There was a brief silence, Malfoy's face expressionless, and Harry's shoulders stiffened, worried he'd taken the teasing too far and offended him, but then Malfoy let out a peal of laughter, brief but genuine, and Harry relaxed.

“I suppose that makes it all the more pathetic that I was able to sneak up on you yesterday,” Malfoy shot back with a smirk, easing into the casual position he’d adopted the night before, leaning against the tree with arms crossed over his chest. Harry eyed his thick cloak with envy.

There was a pause during which Harry continued to stare at Malfoy, trying to work out why he felt so relieved, elated even, that Malfoy had sought him out again tonight. He tried to convince himself that he had been craving distraction from the cold and the monotony of his own thoughts, and even entertained the idea that a Malfoy he could see with his own two eyes was a safer Malfoy because then he'd know if the git was up to something. But he knew the truth was more akin to Ron's suggestion at breakfast, that regardless of any protests, either inward or outward, Harry had once again let himself become obsessed with Draco Malfoy.

“Care to sit this time?” Harry asked, gesturing to the stones next to him. “It's not very comfortable, but the view's nice.” There was a pause during which Malfoy deliberated, and Harry worried his offer might go rejected. “Unless you prefer not to dirty your cloak,” Harry jibed, his eyes meeting Malfoy's with an apologetic smile, still unsure of the boundaries for this tentative truce.

Draco pushed off from the tree and strode over to Harry, thumping defiantly to the ground. “I’m not quite that high-maintenance, Potter,” he growled, but Harry could see him fighting a smile.

Malfoy sat cross-legged less than a meter from Harry, and as the warming charm had already lost its potency, Harry relished the warmth emanating from his body and sheltering Harry from the worst of the wind. Malfoy stared into the mist for a moment before jerking his gaze to his own hand, which was suddenly fumbling for something in his pocket. Harry had always thought, however begrudgingly, that Malfoy was graceful. He carried himself with confidence and always seemed aware of his surroundings. In fact, Harry couldn't recall a single instance of Malfoy stumbling or tripping which hadn't been the result of a hex, generally originating from himself or Ron, but now watching him up close, Harry noticed a different quality to his movements. He had been correct that Malfoy's motions were precise and finessed, but they were also quick and sharp, markedly less graceful than Harry had supposed. The second Malfoy decided he wanted to move his hand to his pocket, it was already there. Harry smiled to himself, proud of his observational skills and wondering if he might enjoy being an Auror after all.

Only moments later, Harry realized he was still staring at Malfoy's pocket with a look of glee on his face. He lifted his gaze to meet Malfoy's and found a raised, questioning eyebrow. Harry shook his head in response, not willing to admit that he'd been analyzing Malfoy's personal characteristics. Holding out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, clearly a casualty of the assault on his pocket, Malfoy raised both eyebrows and nodded once, indicating that Harry should take one. “Oh. Er, no thanks. I don't smoke.” He shrugged and pulled out a cigarette for himself before palming the packet into his cloak. Harry watched as he lit the cigarette with his wand and took a drag, his shoulders immediately relaxing as he exhaled.

Finally, feeling as though somebody ought to say something, Harry began, “So – ” but stopped short as Malfoy turned toward him and also began to talk. Both boys snapped their mouths shut and stared awkwardly at each other, unsure how to proceed. They gazed at each other a moment before Malfoy nodded to Harry, and drawled, “You were saying...?” followed by a long pull on his cigarette.

“Er. Well I was just going to ask which Quidditch team you're supporting this season.”

Malfoy's mouth quirked. “The Falmouth Falcons. Usually, I support the Tutshill Tornadoes as well, but this year they've been playing like drunken nifflers.”

Harry snorted. “Drunken nifflers?”

“Yes,” Draco nodded and took another drag. “They've completely forgotten offense and defense in favor of chasing shiny things, but it's not even as if they're doing a good job of that. It's been a rather disgraceful display.” Harry laughed. “You disagree, Potter?” he shot, eying him sharply.

“Not at all actually. I just like the visual. I feel as though nifflers on brooms is the sort of team Hagrid might coach,” he chuckled and Draco smiled while blowing smoke directly into the mist pouring off the lake. “Well, however badly the Tornadoes are playing, at least both of your teams are doing better than mine this year,” Harry added. Malfoy turned back to face Harry. “Puddlemere United,” he explained morosely.

“You know how to pick them, Potter. They're appalling this year. Although I suppose you can still lord your team over Weasley's. At least Puddlemere isn't nil in six this season.”

Harry laughed. “True. I like the Cannons, too, though. There's something about an underdog.”

“Is it the wretched sense of desperation? Because I believe the Cannons have that in abundance.”

Harry chuckled again, then turned thoughtful. “No, I just suppose it's more exciting to watch them get better when no one else believes in them.” Draco's smile vanished and he turned back to the lake to smoke.

“How'd you know Ron likes the Cannons anyway?” Harry wondered aloud.

“An excellent question,” Malfoy muttered, refusing to turn toward Harry. There was a long pause, in which Harry counted as Malfoy exhaled smoke in swirling spires three times while he tried to figure out how to get him to smile again. Finally, Malfoy turned back to Harry and broke the silence. “So what is it about Puddlemere that gets you going?”

“I don't know exactly. I guess it started with Wood – you know Oliver Wood, the old Gryffindor captain?” Draco nodded. “Well, I started supporting them after he was drafted. He's half the reason I liked Quidditch as much as I did. And their defense has been loads better since he joined,” Harry added.

Malfoy weighed Harry's words. “Alright, I'll give you that. But Wood doesn't even play that often. He's reserve. Plus, they need more than good defense to be a good team.”

“Anderson's decent, too,” Harry defended.

“Yeah, but their seeker's total shit.” Malfoy peered at Harry while taking another drag, as if daring him to defy the accusation.

“Well – ” Harry paused. “Well, yeah,” he admitted. There was a longer silence.

“You and Blaise would have a lot to talk about,” Malfoy said unexpectedly.

“He likes Puddlemere?”

“Yes. He's got shockingly poor judgment when it comes to Quidditch,” he grinned at Harry cheekily before continuing. “Although I think his preferences have more to do with the attractiveness of the team rather than the quality of the players. I've always suspected he had a crush on Wood.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

“Does Blaise's sexuality offend your chivalrous Gryffindor sensibilites?” Draco asked with more than a hint of laughter in his voice.

“No, of course not,” Harry replied dismissively, annoyed at the implication. “I'm just surprised he'd deign to notice a Gryffindor. He's always seemed a little, er, haughty to me.” Harry peeked at Malfoy to see how this observation was received.

Malfoy laughed. “He's reserved. And a bit conceited. But he's actually a good guy.” A pause. “He didn't shut me out this year.” Malfoy's smile dropped and his brow furrowed. Then, a moment later, the expression cleared and he added, “He has terrible taste in Quidditch, but decent taste in men.” Harry's heart raced. Did that mean that Malfoy also fancied men? He let the words hover in the air, but did not comment, merely filing the information for future perusal, all too aware that he'd obsess over it later at his leisure.

A stiff gust of wind rose up suddenly from the lake, and Harry felt it penetrate his thin robe. He curled his arms around himself defensively and hunched over, but couldn't stop a violent shiver from wracking his body.

“Can I ask why you're dressed as though it's a pleasant summers evening, Potter?” Draco asked, eying Harry speculatively.

“I've asked myself that question each time the wind does that. I didn't realize it would be so cold tonight or I would have dressed warmer,” Harry groused.

“And it didn't occur to you to do this?” Malfoy produced his wand in the same instant and cast a warming charm over Harry. It settled around Harry, falling over his shoulders in soft tingles and hovering over his body with a distinctly fluffier feeling than Harry's own charms. Malfoy looked smug when Harry's shivering ceased.

“Funnily enough, it did,” Harry said with irritation. “Those charms only last about five minutes each, though. I pretty much gave up on them after the first seven.” Malfoy turned thoughtful, then reached in his cloak's breast pocket, emerging with a fistful of gray fabric, which he thrust in Harry's direction without looking at him.

“What's this?” Harry asked, finally accepting what turned out to be an angora scarf after Malfoy shook the offering toward Harry again in frustration. “You don't have to give me your scarf, Malfoy.”

He turned and rolled his eyes at Harry. “It's not a gift, I'm just lending it to you. After all, it'd be a bloody pity if the Savior of the Wizarding World survived the Dark – ” he stopped for split second, “Voldemort, but then succumbed to hypothermia. And I'd likely be blamed. So just take the damn scarf,” Malfoy glared resolutely at the ground, a gesture which Harry was rapidly recognizing as Malfoy-esque embarrassment.

“Thanks,” Harry said shyly. He smiled and looped the scarf around his neck. The scarf was plain gray and practical but soft, warm, and likely expensive. “This is nice. Aren't you worried I'll harm it somehow?”

Draco raised his eyebrows at Harry again. “Do you intend to?”

“Well, no.”

“Then it's fine.”

Harry smiled and raised his right hand. “I, Harry Potter, solemnly swear to defend Draco Malfoy's scarf with all of my honor, and to not use it for any unnatural purposes.”

“I'm not even going to ask what unnatural purposes you could invent.” Harry grinned and waggled his eyebrows, prompting Malfoy to shake his head in mock disappointment.

There was a long pause, during which neither of them said anything, the only movement the rise and fall of Draco's hand as he finished his cigarette, stubbing it out against the rocks, and the occasional drifting of clouds across the newly waning moon. Eventually, Harry turned to Malfoy and asked, “So what were you going to say before?”

“Hmm?” he turned to look at Harry. “Oh. I was going to ask how your transfiguration was going.”

Oh. Harry groaned. “Er. Not great,” he answered honestly. “I've, er, been having a little trouble with my focus,” he added quietly, not quite sure why he was admitting this to Malfoy.

Several emotions flickered across Malfoy's face in quick succession, too quick to catch. “I do too, sometimes, when I'm tired. Is it getting any better?” His tone was matter-of-fact, but there was no trace of irony or amusement, and Harry thought Malfoy was attempting kindness. He wracked his brain, trying to compare how he felt at the beginning of the year compared to how he feels now, but found it as difficult as trying to recall the color shirt he wore ten years ago. “I honestly don't know.” He rubbed his forehead in agitation and laughed bitterly, wishing he hadn't brought it up and wondering how to change the subject. He didn't want Malfoy to think of him as defective.

Harry turned to Malfoy with a wicked smile. “Have I ever mentioned how lovely you look in magenta?”

Malfoy startled for moment, but then narrowed his eyes to glare at Harry, although there was still a small smile resting on his face. “I'm going to kill Pansy.”

Harry laughed. “And I'm going to send her a Christmas card. Honestly, it almost made up for her trying to sell me out to Voldemort – ” Harry stopped short, realizing how flip this comment would appear to Malfoy, who himself had on multiple occasions attempted to do the same. Malfoy sat frozen, with a look a utter shock and panic on his face.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that,” Harry attempted, realizing how vapid his apology sounded. How else could he have meant it?

“I have to go,” Malfoy muttered, jumping up from the spot next to Harry.

“Wait, Malfoy. Don't go. I'm sorry!” But Malfoy was taking long strides, already retreating and didn't turn back or address Harry's pleas. Harry stood up and watched Malfoy leave, trying to retrace his steps and understand how the night turned so cold so quickly, with or without Malfoy's scarf still wrapped heavily around his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken some time to plan out future installments. The next chapter will feature Angst, but will costar Luna, Hagrid, and thestrals, and Draco and Harry will move on from the past.


	6. Thestrals and Reparations

“When we get back, I can show you the Crumple-Horned Snorkack potion we used,” Luna said, turning her wide, blue eyes towards Draco. “Professor Slughorn seemed quite envious when I showed him at start of term.” Draco bit the inside of his cheek as they trudged across the frosted grounds, attempting to conceal his disbelief. “It didn't help attract one this time, but Father and I are going to try again in the spring. We suspect their mating season happens at a different time of year. There still isn't a lot known about them, you see. They're very shy.”

“And this potion is supposed to mimic mating smells?” Draco winced, not quite sure whether he wanted to hear the answer.

“Oh, yes. It’s Hebert Klawsson’s formula.” Noting his blank expression, Luna expounded. “He's a magizoologist from Sweden and the leading expert on Crumple-Horned Snorkacks. Father and I are planning a trip to meet him after graduation.”

Draco blinked away mental images of the Lovegoods being mauled by an angry Erumpent after having sprayed its den with the fabricated pheromones of a mythical creature. Searching for an honest response, he eventually stumbled upon, “That sounds interesting.”

Luna hummed to herself, her radish earrings jangling with each step, while Draco trailed after her towards the forest. Each Saturday morning since the start of term, Luna had led him to a thicket not far past Hagrid's hut, just at the edge of where the woods became dense and beckoned menacingly. There she would summon Hogwarts' sizable herd of thestrals, with a seemingly endless supply of raw meat finagled from the kitchens. The war had decimated their population, and Hagrid had been working to breed the herd as well as introduce new thestrals to the group. Although the majority of students were now capable of observing the strange creatures, their ghastly appearance kept people from seeking them out. Luna had accordingly taken it upon herself to make sure the calves were being fed properly. At first, Draco had followed Luna with reluctance and had merely been a spectator, but at her insistence, he had begun tending them himself. He'd grown particularly fond of the calves, which, once acclimated to human presence, were playful and mischievous, unlike their stoic and mysterious adult counterparts.

He grimaced as the cold wind bit across the back of his neck, wishing he hadn't loaned his scarf to Potter a couple nights earlier. Since then, Draco had done his utmost to avoid the prat, a difficult feat considering they had most classes together and Potter himself seemed keen on communicating. At first, Draco fled from his seat the minute class was dismissed, but Potter, becoming wise to this tactic, had hurried to follow him into the corridor after Friday's potions class, and Draco had to duck into a broom closet to escape. While hiding amongst Filch’s cleaning supplies, he’d managed to knock over a bucket of Mrs. Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover and spent the remainder of the day with cleaning solution permeating his socks and classmates shooting him disgusted looks upon catching a whiff of the nostril-burning odor.

Later that afternoon, Potter beat Draco to the door once charms was dismissed and began anxiously pacing outside the doorway, like a cat waiting for a mouse to emerge from its burrow. Draco had to resort to extreme measures, engaging Professor Flitwick in a thirty-minute debate on the invention of moistening charms before Potter finally gave up on guarding the charms corridor and departed with a distinctly glum demeanor. Draco considered it a personal victory that he’d summoned the stamina to bullshit his way through such a dull discussion, an issue which hadn’t dampened Flitwick’s enthusiasm. Ten minutes later, while finally making his way back to the Slytherin common room, he decided that ending the conversation had been as equally impressive an achievement as actually conducting it. He'd eventually told Flitwick that he needed a shower, a claim which no one who smelled his acrid, cleaning-solution-drenched socks could deny.

When he wasn't in class, Draco had kept to the Slytherin dorms or common room as much as possible. He'd noticed after the first day that Potter had an uncanny knack for turning up wherever he was. Since this realization, he'd lived by three simple rules: 1) The buddy system. Much to her delight, he refused to leave Pansy's side. 2) Bribery. One didn't have to dine at the Great Hall if one knew how to motivate one's friends or any of the overly obliging house elves to bring food right to the Slytherin dorm. 3) Don't be obvious. Draco didn't speak during class unless absolutely necessary. He didn't draw attention to himself outside of class. But most importantly, he kept his face free of emotion, never letting on when he was anxious, or hurt, or lonely, or when he was thinking about Potter more than he should, more than was healthy.

Because the truth of the matter was that he was often thinking about Potter. An unfortunate result of these self-imposed restrictions was the vengeful return of insomnia, cruelly playing tag-team with his nightmares. It was a cyclical combination, because the insomnia made falling asleep more desperate and emotional, thus inviting the nightmares to hijack any semblance of peace. He'd wake covered in sweat and vow to never shut his eyes again, which only perpetuated the sleeplessness. The end result was a disgusting amount of spare time during which his mind wandered down paths it shouldn't, such as ones that led to Harry Potter. 

Draco revisited their night by the lake obsessively, his mind looping over Potter's smiles, the way they crinkled the corners of his eyes in a way that made Draco feel like they were really seeing him. But walking down that path would always end at the same place; Draco would come to his senses, realizing that he had been living an absurd fantasy thinking he might become friends with Harry Potter. He had been on the wrong side of the war. He'd committed crimes he could not undo, and it would always come back to that. So each time his brain meandered down that path, he would apply all his self-control (plus a considerable amount of self-loathing) to quit entertaining such ridiculous notions, and would ultimately find himself thinking that practicality had never felt so much like despair.

“Oh, look!” Luna pointed toward the Quidditch pitch. “Somebody else is out for an early morning stroll. Shall we invite them along?”

Sure enough, there was a dark-haired, male-shaped figure loping away from the broom shed, dressed head to toe in red Quidditch robes. Draco's mind immediately leaped to Potter, although he reassured himself that any number of Gryffindors could fit this description. “We don't even know who it is, Luna.”

“Well, I suppose inviting them over would be an effective way to find out,” she said cheerfully, smiling at Draco as if he'd been the one to have such an excellent idea.

“Wait, Luna, don't. It's a Gryffindor. I'm not very – ” he paused, unsure of how to describe the entirety of his predicament, “popular with Gryffindors,” he finished, choosing to exclude the fact that his unpopularity was not limited to Gryffindor and that the majority of the problem was his desire to avoid Harry Potter entirely.

“I'm not either. Except Harry seems to like me. And Ginny. And Neville and Ron. And I think Hermione, too, but I can never really tell,” she glanced at Draco thoughtfully, then resumed her previous cheeriness. “All the more reason to invite them to join us. I think I've most often become friends with people when I've spent time with them,” she decided with complete sincerity, and before Draco could protest again, she waved her arms over her head and yelled out, “Hello!” The figure turned bodily toward the two of them and began to make his way toward them rather than toward the castle. Draco felt his insides drench in cold panic.

As the figure moved closer, Draco became more certain that it was, in fact, Harry Potter, and his panic turned to dread. His fears were confirmed when Luna turned towards him and said, “I think it's Harry. What a nice surprise. Harry loves thestrals.” Despite his best efforts, he could feel anger taking shape on his face, but Luna seemed oblivious to his discomfort.

“Morning, Luna. What are you doing out here so early?” Potter said when only a few meters away.

“Draco and I are going to feed the thestrals. Care to join?” Draco refused to actually look at Potter but could feel appraising eyes on him.

“I'm a bit sweaty. I'm just coming from a morning fly. But as long as that doesn't bother you, I'd love to see the thestrals.” _It does bother us,_ Draco thought as loudly as he could. _Go away, and take your stupidly wind-blown hair and irritatingly tight Quidditch robes with you._

“Oh, good! We were hoping you'd say that,” Luna responded, and without another moment's hesitation, she resumed directing their small party towards the section of the forest which Draco had affectionately begun to think of as Thestral Home Base. Potter glanced over at Draco before following, but ignoring the questioning look, Draco hurried after Luna, head down, refusing Potter the chance to open his stupid mouth.

Luna chatted to Potter throughout the short journey, summarizing the work Hagrid had done after the war to increase herd numbers. Potter nodded politely and inserted proper expressions of excitement at news that the thestral herd had grown by twelve since he’d last visited, and sadness when he discovered that one of the new calves had died, but his eyes never once left Draco. Draco stared resolutely at the leafy earth in front of his feet, but he could feel the prickling on his skin, all too aware of being watched.

When they reached Thestral Home Base, Luna pranced ahead, extracting a handful of raw meat from the pocket of her robes, smearing it along the tree trunks. Potter remained next to Draco, standing toward the edges of the clearing, watching as four thestrals cautiously nosed their way towards the bloodied tree bark. Draco felt trapped, wishing too many things at once: that he had blown Luna off this morning, that Potter would stop staring at Draco as if he’d be his next meal, but mostly that Potter didn’t look so attractive in his flying gear.

Standing still in the tense silence, he waited for Potter to address him rather than simply rake him over with his eyes, and eventually anxiety overwhelmed him. He turned his head to glare at Potter. “You obviously have something you want to say, so just spit it out,” Draco hissed.

Harry continued to stare at Draco serenely. After an almost unbearable silence, Potter asked with perfect calm, “How did you and Luna become friends?”

A mixture of relief and frustration overtook Draco, and he pressed his eyes closed for a moment. This is why Potter had been staring at Draco for the past fifteen minutes? Opening his eyes, he regarded Potter, still wary but resigned to answering the question truthfully. “She approached me one Saturday morning while I was walking the grounds and thanked me for being nice to her when she was – ” he paused, swallowing thickly, “at the Manor,” Draco finished quietly, ashamed of admitting his role in Luna’s imprisonment. Potter nodded solemnly, as if he could possibly understand, and Draco suddenly felt the need to make him comprehend the truth. “I wasn’t kind to her, Potter,” he insisted. “I just didn’t treat her like vermin. I’m quite aware that I don’t deserve her friendship or gratitude. Or forgiveness for that matter. But I accepted it anyway.”

Potter gazed at Draco with wide eyes, as if opening them so wide would allow him to see straight into Draco’s soul. “If she thinks you're worthy of her friendship, then you probably are.” They both looked towards Luna, who was performing an intricate dance, one of the calves trying to copy her foot patterns.

Draco groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“This. Talking to me. Trying to be my… friend,” Draco finished uncertainly.

Potter’s eyebrows furrowed, making him look all at once like a wounded puppy. “Do you not want that?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know,” Draco fired in quick succession. “I don’t even think it’s possible. You’re a hero and I’m a Death Eater,” he added bitterly.

“Ex-Death Eater,” Potter concluded.

“I wasn’t aware I could get this removed whenever I wanted,” Draco growled, holding up his left arm and yanking down the sleeve so his Dark Mark was exposed.

“So you have a scar,” Potter dismissed, brows wrinkled in consternation. Draco noticed that Potter’s eyes scanned the Mark but then shifted elsewhere.

“A scar,” Draco scoffed.

There was a moment’s silence, during which Potter was quiet and pensive. He turned his eyes back to meet Draco’s. “Do you regret things?”

Draco raised his eyebrows. “Do I regret things?” Draco exploded. “Of course I do! When I have nightmares, I don’t really get to wake up from them because I’m part of them. I did those things, and I don’t get to rationalize that or walk away from it. I get to carry it with me. You wouldn’t understand. You don’t have anything to regret.”

Potter’s jaw tightened, and Draco watched his throat move as he swallowed hard. There was fire in his eyes, but when he spoke it was slow and controlled, a simmer rather than an explosion. “I’m betting there are several scars across your chest that beg to differ. People I loved died.” He paused. “If I’d turned myself in hours earlier, they might still be alive.”

Draco weighed the words and found them wanting. Perhaps he had been wrong in indicating that Potter had nothing to regret, but the choices he had to make seemed like quiet, friendly choices compared with ones that had required Draco to torture and harm and watch as people were murdered. “You never should have had to make that choice,” Draco argued.

“Neither should you,” Potter returned. Draco was floored to realize that Potter was completely earnest.

“Can you really see it that way?” Draco nearly whispered, worried that Potter would come to his senses and say no, but also worried that he would say yes, giving Draco a type of forgiveness he didn’t know how to handle.

“I can. And I do.” The two boys stared at each other awkwardly, suddenly remembering where they were. Draco was unsure of how to proceed after having been inappropriately forward with Harry Potter.

“Morning, Hagrid.” Draco turned his head at Luna's soft greeting to see the half-giant approaching her. She patted the head of one of the thestrals while it chomped on an enormous cut of meat. “Look how well Francois is doing today. He's quite hungry,” she added as the reptilian creature swallowed the remainder of the steak in one gulp.

A calf trotted up to Hagrid, nosing inside his pocket. “Hullo,” he chuckled affectionately. “Can yeh smell the bones I brough'?” He scattered what looked like half of an elk carcass on the ground, attracting several more thestrals to the carnage, and Potter smiled indulgently as he watched the grotesque scene in front of them. “Alright, Harry? I didn't see you there.”

Potter joined Luna and Hagrid and patted the nose of the thestral Luna had called Francois. Personally, Draco hadn't been very successful in distinguishing one thestral from the next, so he'd given up on trying. Hagrid asked Potter if he'd been sleeping any better. There was an almost imperceptible pause before Potter told him he had been, and Hagrid grinned and laid a rough hand on Potter's left shoulder, buckling his knees and just about forcing him to the ground. Draco couldn't help but smile a little, both at Potter's poorly executed lie and his near defeat by a kind gesture.

Draco was aware of the wet, squelching noise just before he became aware of the cold, slab of meat Luna had managed to slap into the hand hanging by his side. Then, in the gentle but forceful way that only Luna could manage, she grabbed the hand she hadn't just defiled and dragged him toward an apprehensive mother and calf hanging at the edge of the thicket. Bending down, he held the slab toward the young thestral, who regarded him with small but wary eyes. She pushed the steak around with her nose, then glanced at Draco as if it were his turn.

Draco glanced up at Luna, wordlessly begging for help. “Selena is a bit shy,” she offered.

“I think it's too big. She's just a little 'un. Yeh should use smaller pieces, yeh see?” a booming voice explained from above him. He turned to see Hagrid demonstrating by tearing a similarly sized steak into small pieces using his bare hands. Doubting his ability to likewise use only his arm-strength, Draco extracted his wand from his pocket.

“ _Diffendo_.” The slab broke into ten equally sized cubes in his palm.

“That's it. Now, jus' nudge 'em toward her, real easy like. Maybe even drop one ter the ground near her.” Draco did as instructed and watched as the calf swallowed the cube from the ground and pawed its way to Draco's hand, accepting each cube as he individually fed it to her. When she finished and returned to her mother, Draco looked up at Hagrid, who was beaming.

“Thank you,” Draco said timidly.

“Yer welcome. It's nothin', really. Jus' learned a few tricks over the years with these guys,” he returned, shifting on his feet as though Draco's gratitude had made him uncomfortable. Draco smiled back, nodded, and then returned his attention back to the calf and her mother, glad for the distraction from their mutual embarrassment.

Hagrid left to inspect the other calves, but at the sound of shuffling feet nearby, Draco turned to find Potter standing nearby, looking very much like the cat that got the cream. Draco scowled, only eliciting a low chuckle from Potter. “I'm still the same arsehole you've always hated,” he grumbled, only causing Potter's grin to widen.

“Well, I'd bes' be off now. I've got ter get back an' take care of me pumpkins 'fore classes today.”

“I'll walk back with you. I'm out of meat anyway.” Luna turned out the pockets of her robes, a steady drip of blood oozing from them. Draco wrinkled his nose and glanced to Potter, who laughed at his expression. He tried to glare at him, but instead cast him a grumpy smile.

Draco stood up, and without a word between them, they silently followed Hagrid and Luna out of the forest towards Hagrid's hut. Draco pretended to listen to Luna quizzing Hagrid about a project for Care of Magical Creatures but was actually savoring the warmth pouring off Potter's body, when he felt a fleeting brush of skin against his hand. Draco startled, and turned his head to glance at Potter. A light blush rose in Potter's cheeks, and he smiled sheepishly at Draco before they both returned their gazes to the ground. A few minutes later, Draco felt cold fingers brush his once more. He sensed Potter's gaze on his face, but this time he refused to look up, although he couldn't stop the corners of his lips from curling up into a small smile. Draco thought idly that he should increase the distance between himself and Potter, but continued to walk next to him unchanged, mere centimeters away. If it bothered Potter that their hands might brush occasionally, well, then he could do something about it himself.


	7. Intervention

Ginny was grinning, the sun reflecting off her red hair, illuminating her face in a golden halo. She took a few steps forward, giggling a little, and grabbed Harry's hand. “Come with me, Harry.” He shook his head and tried to reclaim his hand, but she was holding on too tightly. “Why don't you want to?” Recovering his hand, he turned away and walked into the Dark Forest.

It was pitch black, and Harry could just make out a smattering of stars through gaps in the foliage. He could hear the hooting of a far-off owl and the whispering of leaves in the wind, but despite his ominous surroundings, he felt completely at ease. In a clearing only meters away there was a tent pitched, and Harry continued towards it. Unfastening the entrance, he stepped inside then retied the heavy canvas, blocking out the breeze. It was warm, dry, and dimly lit by lantern light. 

Laying down on the bed, he made to pull the blankets higher, but faltered upon seeing the shape of another person laying next to him. Stretching his arm to the left, he felt the ridges of ribs. A little farther and his fingers fell upon the firm planes of a chest. Muscular. Not soft. Should he ask this person who he was and why he was in Harry's tent, let alone his bed? But then a mouth was on his, warm and soft and hard all at once. Cold fingers gripped his shoulders, shifting to his biceps, then working downwards, touching a different part of his skin with each movement. And then the fingers were on his buckles, deftly working them undone, and the mouth left his, trailing kisses down his sternum and stomach and over the small patch of hair that led beneath his trousers. Each moment brought a new sensation, and before he could grow accustomed to it, there was a shift, and he would feel hands stroking or lips sucking or teeth nipping somewhere else. It was overwhelming, but then an intense pleasure settled over the middle of his body, radiating outwards all the way to his fingertips and toes, and he no longer needed time to think about anything. Ever. He never wanted to grow accustomed to this sensation, nor did he ever want it to end.

He looked down, finding his own hands tangled, gripping fistfuls of white-blond hair. Yanking upward in surprise, Draco Malfoy's face materialized, lips red and wet, his confused expression fading into a relaxed smile. “Happy birthday, Harry.” 

* * *

Harry woke alone in his bed, surrounded by red hangings, and breathing hard. He was staring at the ceiling, daylight already pouring in, and his hand was down his trousers, wrapped around his cock. Stroking himself once, he shuttered at how close he was to release. Pre-cum beaded at the tip. He rubbed his thumb over it and bit his lip to keep from groaning. Malfoy's face flooded his mind. He began stroking himself with vigor, picturing his head bobbing up and down over his cock, and he came after only a few quick strokes. Letting out a tiny groan, he continued to lay on his back for a moment, panting, fingers still wrapped around himself, wondering how fucked up he should feel about a) having an erotic dream about Draco Malfoy, and b) bringing himself off to the memory of it afterwards.

He sighed. Did he want Draco? If he were being honest, he found Malfoy attractive, but he was also an unbelievable arsehole. Having feelings for Malfoy, even buried so deeply they were only announcing themselves through dreams, would help explain why he was working so hard to befriend him, a phenomenon he hadn't been able to explain to himself as of yet. Throughout this endeavor, Harry had discovered that Malfoy was far less of an arsehole than he'd been in the past, and still probably less of one than he pretended he was. That didn't mean that Harry should be fantasizing about kissing and blow jobs, though, and it certainly didn't mean Malfoy felt anything other than irritation and disdain for Harry.

But. There had been the hand incident. Harry had brushed Malfoy's hand multiple times on their walk back from visiting the thestrals, at first by accident and then twice more on purpose. The first time, Malfoy had seemed shocked, but he continued to walk side-by-side with Harry without moving a centimeter away. Even more peculiar was the tiny smile on his face the second time it had happened. Harry hadn't been able to stop grinning like a fool until he'd returned to the Gryffindor common room, at which point he worried he was reading too much into the minutiae of Malfoy's facial expressions.

He sighed again, utterly confused. Shoving his glasses over the bridge of his nose, he grabbed his wand and cleaned up the mess just in time to hear the door open.

“Oh, good. He's awake, Ron.”

“But his bed hangings are still closed.”

“Honestly, Ronald. Use your eyes. His glasses and wand are gone from the bedside table.” Harry could almost hear the eye roll. “Harry,” she called out tentatively. “Are you awake in there?”

Harry bundled the blankets over his softening cock, and then yanked the bed hangings aside, thanking the heavens his friends hadn't arrived minutes sooner. “Morning,” he greeted Hermione, raising his eyebrows a little at her sheepish expression. Ron stood next to her, looking as though he'd rather be serving a detention with Filch than currently standing in the Gryffindor eighth year boys dormitory. “Can I ask why you've been waiting for me to wake up?”

Ron and Hermione sat side-by-side on the edge of Ron's bed and exchanged a glance, Ron clearly pleading with her non verbally. Finally, Hermione sighed and turned back to Harry, rearranging her expression into a gentle smile. “We just wanted to talk with you, Harry. You've been rather elusive lately.”

Harry continued to stare passively at his friends, and Ron, realizing that Harry wasn't upset, drew courage from this. “We've been worried about you, mate,” he added.

“I'm fine,” Harry assured them, sitting up straighter in his bed, as if to say, _See, look how straight I can sit. Could someone who wasn't okay do that? I don't think so._

“You've been pretty out of it,” Ron responded.

Harry shrugged. “I've just had a lot on my mind. But I got the hang of that transfiguration stuff. And I caught up on sleep last night. I'm fine.” Ron and Hermione didn't seem convinced. “Truly,” Harry added, seeing their looks of disbelief.

“You almost walked into the girls' loo yesterday,” Ron pointed out.

“We spent a good portion of second year in the girls' loo,” Harry countered, causing Ron to shoot Hermione a look as if to say, _He's got a point there._

Hermione grimaced. “Harry, I had to stop you from adding your quill instead of porcupine quills to your potion on Friday.”

Harry winced. “Well, they're both types of quills. Anybody could have made that mistake.” 

Hermione raised an eyebrow at his poor logic, then continued in a soft tone. “I guess we've just been wondering if anything's changed recently. It seems like it's been a little worse this week.”

“Not really,” Harry responded. Ron and Hermione exchanged another disbelieving look.

“You've barely slept,” Ron added. “Usually you at least get half a night's sleep, but lately it's been less. We just want to help you, mate.” He paused and then brought his voice to a near whisper. “I still have nightmares sometimes, too.”

Harry turned to look out the window. The dreary weather had passed, and a flock of birds flew past the Gryffindor tower, enjoying the sunshine. “It's not the nightmares, exactly.” He turned back to face his friends. _In fact,_ he thought, _if I had more dreams like the one last night, I'd be far more willing to sleep._

Hermione sat up straighter, looking more alert, as if Harry's vague honesty had excited her as much as Arithmancy assignments do. “What is it, then? I promise we'll help, whatever it is,” she said in a rush.

Harry couldn't help but laugh. “It's not anything you can help with exactly.”

“No?” She smiled encouragingly, and Harry faltered, wondering how he could possibly explain that he had not only been spending time with Draco Malfoy but also might have feelings for him. Romantic ones.

“I guess I've just been preoccupied, thinking about how I might mend some personal relationships,” he finally elaborated.

“With Ginny?” Ron's head snapped up, his eyes full of hope, and Harry threw him an exasperated look. “I mean, I just think that might help with some of the other problems,” Ron added. Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes. Harry echoed her and then turned towards the window again. When he turned back, Ron and Hermione were engaged in a silent but animated argument, which they quit upon realizing that Harry was watching. 

“Do you ever think about what it must be like for Malfoy this year?” Harry asked. “It must be hard for him to be back.” 

Ron wrinkled his nose, but Hermione gave Harry a long, thoughtful look. “I think he has gotten bullied a lot this year,” she admitted.

Ron snorted. “Serves him right.” Harry frowned. “I mean, come on. You can't possibly defend the git after everything he did to you. To Hermione?” Ron pointed at Hermione's arm, while she stared at the floor, apparently deep in thought.

“Malfoy didn't do that,” Harry said quietly.

“He might as well have. He let it happen.”

“What would you have done?” Harry asked in a soft voice, as earnestly as possible. He looked right at Ron, silently begging him to put himself in Draco's shoes, to see how difficult his decisions had been.

“I wouldn't have been involved with Death Eaters in the first place,” he argued.

Harry stared sadly at Ron, realizing that Ron might never accept Draco, and wondering why he cared so much. “He couldn't help his situation anymore than I could help mine,” he tried again. When Ron attempted to protest, Hermione elbowed him hard in the ribs, and he sputtered to a stop. After a long silence, Harry added, “When I look at him, sometimes I see myself.”

Another long silence ensued. “That's a little weird, man.”

Harry laughed lightly. “You know, I'm following your advice. I'm trying to put the rivalry in the past.”

“Yeah, but I also said to ignore the bugger,” he pointed out. “I didn't think you'd want to plan tea parties with him.”

Hermione grabbed Ron's forearm to shut him up, and leaned forward. “Harry, I think it's big of you. If this is what you want, I support you.” Her smile wobbled only a little bit, making Harry feel quite fond of her for trying so hard to be on his side. He smiled back at her.

Ron turned to regard Hermione, gaping like a fish, but when she nudged him, and evidently not very gently, he rubbed his ribs and snapped his mouth shut. Turning back to Harry, he added rather begrudgingly, “Er, yeah. Me, too.”

Harry's smile grew broader as he regarded his deeply uncomfortable but accommodating friend. He felt lighter than he had in days, and thought to himself that he should masturbate and then admit personal truths to his best friends every morning. Stretching his arms towards the ceiling, he emerged from his cocoon of blankets and padded around the bed to where he'd left a pair of jeans and a Chudley Cannons t-shirt heaped atop his trunk before he'd crashed into bed. He hugged the clothes to his chest and turned back to his friends. “Shall we get some breakfast?”

Ron was still looking at Harry with an expression akin to having been told all his teeth would be removed from his mouth for his own good, and Hermione was staring out the window with a fragile smile and nodding repeatedly to reassure herself. Eventually she met Harry's eyes, and agreed to breakfast. Harry smiled back at her then continued to the bathroom to change out of his pajamas, thanking the heavens that Ron and Hermione were still putting up with him after all these years.


	8. Letters and Confrontations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, it's been longer than I intended between the last post and this. It's been a hectic month. The good news is the next chapter is finished and just needs a bit of editing before it, too, is ready for posting, so it will likely be up in a few days time! (And the chapter after that is in the works).
> 
> I wanted to thank everyone who's commented or offered kudos, or even just read my story (and hopefully enjoyed it). It's been incredibly gratifying and brightens my day entirely.

Draco frowned at his eggs, prodding them with the tines of his fork. Bursting one of the yellow domes with a particularly firm poke, he constructed a makeshift dam with his toast, watching as the yolk seeped into the bread. Apparently he had enough energy to play with his food but was too weary to actually convey it to his mouth. Last night had been listless, sleepless, and Potter-less, which after weeks of whiling away the nighttime hours together by the lake had come as something of a disappointment. He had stationed himself lakeside for as long as it had taken his toes to go numb, coincidentally an hour after he had become certain that Harry wouldn’t show. Then he had wandered through the castle, at one point frantically lodging himself in an alcove under a heavy disillusionment charm to hide from Filch, and eventually nestling himself in the Astronomy tower, dozing with his back against the wall and his knees tucked to his chest until the sky paled and regaining sensation in his fingertips became a priority. So it was due to Harry Potter's complete lack of decorum that Draco now sat heavy with fatigue, grumpier than a Goblin with spattergroit, and trying to ignore Pansy’s whinging.

“As if it's not enough that we have to come back here for another year!” she said, hissing the word _here_ as if it were dirty and not to be abided. Then, gulping an indignant breath, she carried on, “He's rude and disgusting and – ” Draco tuned her out, unmoved by the waves of vitriol spewing from her mouth. Breakfast at the Slytherin table would feel incomplete without her ritualistic abuse of their classmates.

Glancing at Blaise, who was sitting across from him, Draco mouthed, “Who?”

“Guess,” he mouthed back.

Draco sighed lightly. Today’s quarry was an old standby, it would seem. He had expected combined eighth year classes to trouble Pansy, especially given her history with Harry. However, far from taking issue with Harry, she had instead victimized Seamus Finnegan, and at first, having no love for the Irish lad, Draco had loyally condoned the insults, despite being confused by her sudden ire. As the weeks continued, though, Blaise and he had begun to suspect that her griping was due less to actual abhorrence and more to harboring feelings for someone her parents would find unsuitable.

“Yes, Pansy, but I don't know why this is coming as such a shock to you. He's always been that way.” Theo punctuated his opinion with a fork-speared sausage, and Draco could hear exasperation etched in his every word.

“But it's ghastly that they've combined all of our classes now. Double potions with the Gryffindors was torturous enough. Now it’s the whole motley crew at every damn class,” she complained. “I'd heard that N.E.W.T. year was supposed to be punishing, but I had no idea that this is what they meant.”

Theo gritted his teeth and shared a dark look with Draco, and in that moment, he could have slapped her. It seemed she had somehow compartmentalized last year in its entirety, which had technically been N.E.W.T year and _had_ been punishing, in the most literal sense of the word.

Theo opened his mouth, exuding waves of mutiny, but Blaise headed him off, remaining calm, pleasant, and neutral as usual. “Think of it this way, Pansy. He might irritate the hell out of you, but at least he's fit as fuck. Just tune him out and stare at his arse.” Pansy blushed a little and Blaise grinned at Draco. Theo merely sighed and grumbled at his breakfast, but Draco was relieved to see the tension had passed. Theo’s anger was like a match: simple to ignite, unimpressive, and easily snuffed.

Draco ignored Pansy's self-righteous rant – just-because-someone-is-fit-does-not-mean-I'll-be-attracted-to-them-and-you'd-know-that-if-you-spent-even-five-minutes-thinking-about-something-other-than-your-own-looks – in favor of watching the Golden Trio enter the Great Hall. Harry's face was lit up by a huge grin. He leaned over to say something to Weasley, who nodded emphatically in response and nudged Granger. For her part, she shook her head in exasperation, although Draco could tell she was biting back a smile. Draco had grown accustomed to this pattern: the boys behaving idiotically, and Granger, the only one of them with any sense, indulging them.

Draco’s mind drifted. He began imagining how the scenario might change were he part of their morning routine. He could clearly see Granger and him walking several paces ahead of Weasley and Harry, commiserating about their misfortune in befriending such idiots. And then Harry would sidle up next to him and say, “Oh, come on, Draco, you know your life would be duller without me.” He would turn his stupidly green eyes on Draco, and this time Harry’s smile would be just for him, and he’d lean his face closer to Draco’s, and…. Draco snapped back to reality, berating himself for being ridiculous. Harry only wanted to be friends with Draco at night, when no one could judge the Chosen One for slumming it with Mudblood-hating, Death Eater Slytherins. The idea of sharing in-jokes with Granger was absurd.

Hearing Potter’s name floating across the Great Hall, he perked up, thinking his wistfulness had been such that he was suddenly able to eavesdrop on their conversation even from his position at the Slytherin table. He dismissed the thought moments later, ashamed of himself for even entertaining it. Not only was the tone distinctly derisive, but Potter’s friends were more likely to use his given name than his surname, something Draco had flatly refused to do thus far. Aloud, at least. He scanned those closer to his vicinity for the source, feeling disproportionately anxious, finally narrowing in on Millicent Bulstrode, the clod, and the self-important harpy sitting next to her, Daphne Greengrass.

“The poor bastard is abysmal at magic,” Millicent was saying, “It's hard to believe he really defeated You-Know-Who.” Draco bristled.

“How do we know he really did?” Daphne responded with a sneer. “I’ve read what the _Prophet_ has to say on the topic,” she added scathingly, “but I’ve always been under the impression that better wizards than Potter did the real work and then the Dark Lord sort of just imploded in the end.” Not only was she loud and opinionated, already a horrific combination, but she was also clearly an imbecile. Given that Daphne had elbowed her way to the front of the line to floo to safety before the Hogwarts Battle last spring, she was in no position to hypothesize about Voldemort’s defeat. That she thought her suppositions, born of nothing more substantial than the wool between her ears, held more truth than the already-dubious Prophet reports was laughable. 

Before he could stop himself, his anger bubbled to the surface. “That’s rich coming from you, Millicent.” He raised his voice, feeling his lip curling around the venom. “Care to remind us how many O.W.L.s you got?” She blushed and looked away. “And your theories are thrilling, Daphne,” he sneered. “I'm sure your gossip will be highly sought after when you're a housewife in a few years. Then you can be Queen of the Bints.” 

“Oh, fuck off, Draco.” Daphne glared at him for a moment then barked a sharp laugh. “You’re just sore because your family landed on the wrong side of all this and now you’re nobody.”

“Well, that’s me told,” he drawled haughtily and looked away. Truthfully, he was unnerved; not only had he broken his policy of keeping out of conflict this year – in order to defend Harry Potter’s honor, no less – but Daphne had also pegged him accurately. The Malfoy name, as well has his own reputation, since the end of the war, had caused him endless anxiety, but it wouldn’t be helpful to exhibit his insecurities. Across the table, Blaise and Theo muttered to themselves while Pansy displayed her loyalty by glaring at Daphne. Draco did his best to pretend that nearly the whole of the Slytherin table as well as a good portion of the Ravenclaw table hadn’t stopped their chattering to stare at him.

Luckily, just moments later, distraction came in the form of the morning post, which descended with its usual chaos and diverted attention from the altercation. Pansy was not sidetracked by the commotion, though, and Draco saw that she had turned away from Daphne and was eying him speculatively. With relief, Draco recognized the Parkinson family owl making its way towards Pansy, and became confident that whichever thought was currently wrinkling her features would soon be displaced by frivolities with no connection to him. 

He was so distracted by Pansy’s distraction that Volans startled him as he swooped down and perched in front of Draco’s plate. He hooted once impatiently, swiping a bit of sausage as Draco untied his mother’s return letter from the outstretched leg. Directing one last dignified hoot towards Draco, Volans nipped fondly at his hand then soared up and out of the Great Hall. Draco ducked his head and unfurled the letter, feeling a rush of affection for his mother upon seeing her smooth, elegant handwriting.

_Dearest Draco,_

_I’m so pleased to hear that you’re keeping your marks up, particularly in Potions and Transfiguration. Horace Slughorn has always been gifted at staying well-connected and especially these days, I suspect Minerva McGonagall’s fine opinion will hold clout with the Ministry. Having a good rapport with your instructors can only be a positive step for the Malfoy family at this point. I’m sure any connections you can forge now will be immeasurably useful when you begin managing the Malfoy Estate next year, so don’t hesitate to ingratiate yourself with your superiors this year. It will be such a comfort for your father to hear that you’re doing your utmost to take over as head of household and restore the Malfoy image. He has precious little to keep his spirits high._

_As for me, I’ve been occupied by the East Wing renovations. It’s been a long, arduous process, but Dinka and Remsy have been invaluable throughout, obtaining any necessary supplies and other such indispensable tasks. I have been far too busy for much else, but rest assured I’m perfectly contented in my pursuits, so there is no need to worry about your mother._

Draco stopped reading, his suddenly fuzzy vision distorting the words. He felt as though the giant squid were sitting on his chest, the weight of expectation squeezing him tightly. Malfoy career options had never been terribly inclusive, but he had always thought he would eventually just tell his parents to fuck off and make his own decisions anyway. Now to do so would shirk his familial duty as well as cause more distress to his failing, imprisoned father and delicate, isolated mother. On top of that, Draco was worried about his mother’s predicament. The smaller she made her world, the more timid she had become, and recently her world had only been as large as a couple of house elves and a troupe of peacocks.

Draco dragged another breath through his throat. Tight. Far too tight. He swallowed a few times, unable to dislodge whatever it was that was blocking the air. He gripped the edge of the table, his vision tunneling, the voices around him too loud and too soft all at once, the weight on his chest becoming painful.

“Are you all right, Draco? Wrackspurt got you?”

Draco lifted his head, which had somehow found its way to the table without his permission, to meet a pair of blue eyes swimming with concern. The pressure lessened, leaving space for embarrassment and shame to fill the cavity in its place. Several other sets of eyes were also focused on him, and he could only assume he looked an absolute wreck at this point. “Hello, Luna,” he greeted weakly, finally breathing properly again.

“I was coming over to warn you that I sensed a Wrackspurt hovering by your table earlier, but I suppose I arrived too late,” she said with remorse. “They’re fond of those who are distracted. I think it was quite taken with your friend a few minutes ago,” she added, smiling at Pansy with complete disregard for her appalled expression. “Well, either way, you appear to have shaken it for now. Who knows where its floated off to.” Her eyes flitted around for a moment, remaining oblivious to the large portion of Slytherin house that was currently eavesdropping. Turning back to him, she added, “Hagrid is ready to flight train some of the young thestrals, so when we go visit this Saturday we can help him with that.”

“Mmm,” he said, quite aware of the staring and tittering. He was, in fact, excited by the prospect of training the younglings. He’d grown attached to them now, surprised and delighted by their acceptance of his presence each Saturday. He just wished Luna could have found a more private moment to share this information with him. Luna overlooked his less-than-enthusiastic response and tilted her head to the side in thought. “You know, I bet Harry would be interested, too. Maybe he’ll come with us again if we ask. You spend time with him quite frequently, don’t you? Could you ask him next time you see him?” 

Draco felt his cheeks warm. “Sure,” he responded quietly, hoping she’d go away if he agreed. How did she know that he spent time with Harry? Hadn’t they been discreet about their burgeoning friendship? Did she follow them down to the lake? More likely, Draco realized, was that Harry had actually told her, a thought which evoked an odd mixture of giddiness and trepidation. Luna, of course, didn’t elaborate on any of this, merely smiling dreamily before floating back to her seat at the Ravenclaw table. 

Draco stared at his unfinished breakfast in an attempt to delay inquiries from his Slytherin spectators, but was granted no such peace. Blaise cleared his throat, waiting for Draco to look up at him before smiling gleefully and raising an eyebrow. Theo was wearing a nearly identical expression of amusement, but was staring politely at his breakfast. Pansy, on the other hand, looked irate.

“So Lovegood, eh?” Blaise’s smile grew even larger, threatening to consume his entire face.

Theo, unable to restrain himself any longer, added, “Didn’t know it was the weird ones who did it for you, Draco.” Both Blaise and him sniggered, and Draco could hear Daphne and Millicent cackling disdainfully in the background.

Draco gritted his teeth, suddenly wishing he’d stayed in the Astronomy tower, even if it meant living the rest of his live without a full complement of fingers and toes. “I’m not _with_ Lovegood. We’re just friends.” More laughter. “If you must know, we’ve been tending the thestrals this year.”

“Sure, thestrals.” Blaise winked at Draco. “Your secret’s safe with us,” he added in a mock-whisper.

Draco sat up straighter, determined to turn this conversation around. “I don’t know why either of you are bothering to be judgmental. It’s not like you’ve gotten any action for a long time. Although,” he added slyly, “I suppose I shouldn’t make any assumptions. I can’t account for what happens behind closed doors when I leave the two of you alone.” He smirked, finding it in him to stomach a few more bites of breakfast.

Scowling at Draco, Theo blushed, but Blaise remained at ease. “Touché, my friend,” he added with a smirk, and then winked once more.

Pansy who had watched all of this, bristling with indignation, forced her soured expression into a simpering smile. “Draco, darling, are you finished eating?” Her tone was as sweet as it was poisonous, and Draco sighed. Nothing was easy this morning.

He nodded, but she had already grabbed his arm, gouging crescent shapes into his forearm with her nails as she pulled him out of the Great Hall and shunted him into the first alcove she could find.

“For fuck’s sake, Pansy,” Draco spit, rubbing his arm once she had released him.

“What is going on with you, Draco Malfoy?” Behind her anger, he could see that she was wounded.

“I promise you I’m not with Lovegood,” he assured her.

“I’m not talking about bloody Lovegood, although I’m not going to pretend _that’s_ not weird. I’m talking about Harry Potter.”

Draco blanched. “What about Potter?” he asked hesitantly. Pansy could be alarmingly observant when she wasn’t focused on herself, and Draco felt as if there had been a giant spotlight on his obsession with Harry this morning.

“What’s going on with him and you?”

“Noth– ”

“Oh, that’s bullshit!”

“Is it, now?” Draco raised one eyebrow, hoping that staying cool and confident would convince her that it was all in her head.

“Oh, please,” she scoffed, not buying Draco’s theatrics. “You’ve always been obsessed with him, but it’s not exactly your usual pattern to smile at him and his minions across the Great Hall.” Draco winced. “And then that scene with Millie and Daphne? I know you’re a bit of a drama whore, Draco, but I was under the impression you’ve been trying to stay out of it this year. And, I quote, ‘You see Harry quite frequently, don’t you?’” she made her voice airy and higher pitched in a surprisingly good imitation of Luna. “Since when does the bloody Savior feed thestrals with you and make you grin like you’ve lost your bloody mind?” Pansy placed her hands on her hips and glared at him so formidably that he was reminded why he never let Pansy get worked up with him.

Draco swallowed. “I think you’re reading too much into these things, Pansy,” he tried.

She gave a frustrated growl. “I’m not a complete fuckwit, so stop treating me like one. I have eyes, you know. You watch the prat all the time. Fondly.” Draco stared at her, wide-eyed and completely disarmed. Recognizing that Draco had been brow-beaten into submission, her expression morphed from indignant to triumphant. “Are you shagging?” she probed casually, as if asking to borrow a quill.

Draco frowned. “No.”

She relaxed a little. “Okay.” She smiled and nodded, and Draco could practically hear her rejoicing at the dissolution of his pretenses. “But tell me honestly, do you want to shag him?” she fixed him with a piercing stare, as if daring him to deflect the question or lie.

Draco groaned and rubbed his forehead. “It’s not that straightforward.”

“It could be,” she shrugged, smiling triumphantly once more before her brow furrowed in uncharacteristic concern. “Look, Draco, I know it’s been a completely shit year for you. Just promise me you’ll remember you have friends you can talk to? I know we behave like insufferable arseholes, but that doesn’t mean we don’t care about you, okay?” Draco nodded and stared at his shoes, feeling simultaneously uncomfortable and touched. “So don’t shut me out anymore, you tosser.” She shoved Draco playfully, and he looked back up at her, a small smile playing on his lips. Pansy spun around and stalked off in the direction of Slytherin common room.

After a moment, Draco reentered the Great Hall, still in a daze from the nightmare this morning had been. As he walked past the Gryffindor table, a black mop of hair caught his eye, and he looked up to meet Harry’s gaze. Harry tilted his head and smiled with implicit questioning concern. Draco felt a twist in his stomach, and smiled back, shaking his head ever so slightly to indicate there was nothing for Harry to worry about. As he continued back to his seat with a smile he couldn’t shake and a warm glowing feeling that left him impervious to Slytherin scrutiny, he realized that when it came to Harry Potter, he was completely and utterly fucked. It had only taken eight years to admit it.


	9. Back Again, Harry?

Harry walked briskly across Hogwarts’ lawn, hurrying as though he had an appointment to keep, which in a manner of speaking, he did. There weren’t arranged meetings, or specific times they kept, or even any discussion about the semi-regularity with which they now sat by the lake, but Draco Malfoy and he had developed a tenuous friendship over the last few weeks, and Harry didn't want to miss a minute of it.

Regardless, there were some nights when life conspired to keep him from their lake-shore hideout. Several nights had been stolen by school work, which he would put off for days only to scramble all night, speed-reading his texts, cursing his abysmal notes, and eventually appealing to Hermione's better nature for help. These efforts mainly resulted in A's, with occasional E's and the rare O.

Twice, he had been inundated by Dueling Club, a disaster which he'd agreed to reinstate and run as a favor to McGonagall. He thought it would work much like the DA had in fifth year, except he'd forgotten to factor in size and range in capability. The DA, which comprised around 30 students mostly from fourth through seventh year, was largely homogenous in age and ability. Conversely, the newly active Dueling Club had attracted over 200 people from all four houses and spanning all seven years during the first few weeks, eventually stemming into a slightly more manageable 150. It required planning, organizing, and appointing deputies in order to keep everyone learning, occupied, and happy. In short, it was completely exhausting.

Then a few nights had gone to Ron and Hermione, who were still trying to fix Harry's problems one game night at a time. Sometimes Luna, Neville, or Ginny joined, but often it was just the three of them, and Hermione would stare at Harry with concern, watching for signs of lapsed concentration. She'd eventually not-so-subtly pry into his mental well-being, at which point Ron would elbow her and then wax optimistic about the Cannons' chances at Quidditch. These evenings ranged from pleasant to uncomfortable, and although Harry was grateful for his friends' continued support, he often found himself wishing he could just quietly slip away to find Draco – for he had become Draco rather than Malfoy – down by the lake. Draco didn't pry, and he certainly didn't treat Harry as though he were fragile.

Each time he hadn't made it to the lake, he had dutifully explained his absence to Draco the next night or discreetly between classes if no one was around to overhear. On the other hand, when Draco missed their meetings, which was the case just as often, he was far less forthcoming, and if Harry asked, he was evasive. Harry didn’t know which he hated more: the burning curiosity or the double standard which allowed Harry to skip their nights by the lake but then feel deeply betrayed when Draco did the same.

Harry wanted badly for Draco to trust him. As it turned out, Draco was not just a pleasant companion with whom he could weather the ever-present insomnia, but also a fascinating person and a good fit for Harry's idiosyncrasies. He was witty, snarky, irreverent, and far kinder than he liked to let on. Even though he, too, had been broken by the war, or perhaps because he had been broken by the war, he didn't handle Harry with kid gloves; he didn't coddle him or walk on eggshells around him or get frustrated by his shortcomings. Of course, this sometimes led to one of them stumbling across emotional landmines, but Harry preferred the occasional flare of anger to the gentle patronization he got from his friends these days.

But truth be told, the most driving reason to spend each increasingly colder night by the lake was that Harry's initial attractions had become full-blown infatuation. Draco Malfoy had infested Harry's thoughts, turning him into the kind of besotted fool that Ron and he ordinarily would have heckled. Throughout the day, Harry found his eyes flitting towards Draco during classes and at meals, watching his precision and control with growing admiration. The few times Draco caught Harry staring, he would raise his eyebrow in a characteristic Malfoy arch, causing Harry’s insides to squirm, and in a hopeless attempt at playing it cool, Harry would nod nonchalantly while drowning in embarrassment. Most recently though, Draco’s expression, rather than forming a haughty question mark, had softened into something vaguely resembling a smile.  
Getting Draco to smile felt, in a way, like winning. His smiles were rare occurrences during the day, but could be teased out when it was just the two of them by the lake. Though these smiles were often small and careful, Harry coveted the moments when Draco lost his tight control and grinned like a maniac. Harry would replay those smiles on repeat, which didn't help with the issue of focus, but it made him feel better about it.

Tonight, Harry was an hour or so later than usual. It was a clear night, albeit dark with no moon, but he traveled by muscle memory, paying no mind to darkness or wind as he strode towards the bank, hopeful he would find Draco already there. He smelled cigarette smoke before he was even around the copse of trees that kept their shore secluded. Smiling, he sat down next to Draco, hoping he wouldn’t protest the minimal space Harry had left between them. Giving him a once over, he took in the green and silver scarf, hat, and emblem-emblazoned cloak. “You're looking very Slytherin tonight,” he assessed.

“I recently loaned my scarf to someone who very rudely hasn’t returned it yet,” he drawled without looking at Harry. “In the meantime, I’m reduced to dressing like a walking Slytherin advertisement.” He glanced over at Harry, and despite the dry delivery, his eyes were bright with amusement. Regardless, being told off by Draco Malfoy was not his favorite way to spend his evenings, so he silently cursed as he began to unravel the gray scarf from his neck. A pale hand shot out and grabbed his arm. “Keep it.” Draco’s eyes were light and a hidden smile played on the corners of his lips, and Harry felt warm and light all at once. “I almost didn’t think you’d show up,” Draco added, inhaling then sighing out a stream of smoke.

“I have this strange desire to pass my N.E.W.T.s, so I actually had to finish some of my school work tonight,” Harry responded wryly.

Draco’s lips quirked upwards. He flitted his eyes towards Harry then back to the lake, his smile growing more pronounced. “Flitwick’s essay?”

“Yep.” Harry sighed. “I still don’t think there was any reason it had to be so long. The first two-thirds went fine, but I made up a lot of the last bit. I had to start writing larger towards the end. I hope Flitwick doesn’t notice,” Harry grumbled.

Draco chuckled. “I actually didn’t have too much trouble filling the space,” he said.

Harry sent him a scathing look. “Excellent. I’ve befriended another Hermione.”

“I’m nowhere near as bright as Granger,” Draco conceded, taking another drag.

Harry laughed. “She’d be stunned to hear you admit that.”

Draco smiled begrudgingly and pulled on his cigarette again. “Out of curiosity,” he said through a mouthful of smoke, “Are Granger and Weasley aware that you're _friends_ with me?”

Harry's pulse jumped at the way Draco drew out the word _friends_ , as if it didn't completely encompass the scope of their relationship. “Sort of.” Draco raised his eyebrows. “Why? Do your friends know?”

There was a pause, and Draco had a peculiar look on his face. “It hasn't come up, in so many words. They're nosy but they're also self-centered, so it’s… possible they’ve noticed.” Draco looked away from Harry and sent smoke swirling across the lake.

Harry grinned again. “I did pick up on the nosiness, actually. I overheard them quizzing you about your love life a while back.”

“Speaking of nosy,” Draco muttered, staring at the ground, and Harry laughed.

“So, who's the lucky lady who's been distracting you at night?” Harry's grin grew wicked. “Or they seemed to think it might be a man?” Harry noticed the blush rise on Draco's cheeks, even in the darkness, and felt his own heart race in response. “I did hear a rumor that you’re seeing Luna.”

Draco’s head snapped up and he whirled around to glare at Harry. “That’s not – ” he hissed, then took a breath and tried again, calmer. “Where did you hear that?”

“Seamus heard it from Parvati who got it from Padma, I believe.” Harry examined the embarrassment plain on Draco’s face for a moment. “So it’s true then?” he asked with some surprise, ashamed that, despite his love for Luna, the idea of them together was prickling under his skin.

Draco sighed and muttered something unintelligible, and then took another drag before calmly responding. “No. She’s not my type.”

Harry’s shoulders relaxed as relief rushed through him. “What is your type?” he inquired, feeling as though he were pushing his luck.

Draco glared at Harry out of the corner of his eye for a moment. “No one. Ex-Death Eaters who need good N.E.W.T. scores don't have much time for romance.”

Harry nodded. “Neither do ex-Horcruxes with what Hermione calls PTSD.”

Draco looked at Harry with wide eyes. Glancing away, he toyed with the rocks by his toes. “So how is the difficulty with your concentration these days?” he asked, striving too hard for nonchalance.

“I think it's getting better,” Harry stated, with undue confidence.

“Oh?”

Harry sighed. “Honestly, I've got no fucking clue. But I'd like to think it's getting better.” He smiled hopefully.

Draco gave him a genuine smile in response. “That's the spirit.” Taking one last drag of his cigarette, he vanished the stub and turned back to the lake, his smile fading.

In an effort to keep Draco from withdrawing, as happened from time to time, Harry asked, “So what are you trying for N.E.W.T.s in?”

“Anything I can get N.E.W.T.s in.”

Harry chuckled a little. “Yeah, but what do you want to do after this?”

Draco sighed. “I don't know. I'm not sure I have many options.”

“You're smart.”

“Don't be an idiot, Harry. That's not what I meant, and you know it.”

Harry couldn't help but feel elated by Draco's casual use of his name, which had been a first, despite his own use of Draco's given name for over a week now. He put aside his personal victories, though, to address Draco's doubts. “You don't think anyone will take you?” Harry asked seriously.

Draco shook his head. “Who wants a Death Eater?”

_I do_ , Harry shouted in his head. “Ex-Death Eater,” he corrected quietly. It was a distinction the two had argued about on many occasions, to the point that Harry now corrected Draco with alacrity and Draco generally ignored the interruption. Harry had been pleased to note that he frequently included the “ex” without a reminder now.

This time, Draco merely shot him a withering look, and stated glumly, “Regardless, my name is mud. I need perfect N.E.W.T.s.”

“I can help, maybe,” Harry said hesitantly, knowing already that Draco wouldn't be interested in the kind of help he was suggesting.

Draco laughed. “With my N.E.W.T.s? No thanks. I don't think that would be helpful.”

“No, I mean – ” Harry began, then paused, considering Draco's words. “Hang on. What do you mean that wouldn't be helpful? I'm a perfectly capable wizard,” Harry bristled.

Draco continued to grin at Harry. “Yes. But I'm better.”

Harry sputtered, trying to think of a way to defend himself but, came up short. Before this year, he'd only seen Draco in potions, where he was far superior to Harry, but Harry had always fancied himself better at spell work than his rival. Now, having seen Draco in all of his classes, Harry wasn't sure if it was the truth or not. Draco was careful and precise, all finesse and subtlety, whereas Harry was erratic but powerful, not able to master skills as quickly but effective and flashy once he got the hang of a spell. During Defense Against the Dark Arts' practical lessons, Harry had begun to view Draco and himself as evenly matched. While Draco had a larger repertoire of intricate spells and techniques at his disposal, Harry was better at thinking on his feet and more likely to improvise. But it had taken weeks of observation to pick up on any of Draco's shortcomings. Truly, he was well-rounded, and for once in his life, Harry felt that he couldn't win this argument against Draco.

“It’s so easy to rile you up,” Draco laughed, watching Harry's internal struggle.

Harry glared at him. “I was going to offer to put in a good word with whoever it is you’re trying to impress, but if you’re going to be an arsehole…” He pursed his lips to keep from smiling and thereby ruining the faux-pouting.

This merely made Draco laugh harder. “Okay, two things.” He held up one finger. “One, you hate being famous.” Harry raised his eyebrows in question. “You spend fifty percent of your day-to-day avoiding Harry Potter superfans,” he explained. He raised a second finger and continued, “Two, you are a horrendous actor. I can see you trying not to smile right now.” Harry broke into a full smile and Draco grinned at him triumphantly.

“You’re right, I do hate being famous, but it come with perks.”

“Like getting what you want when you want it?” Draco laid out bluntly.

“Essentially, yes.” Harry grimaced.

Draco cocked his head to the side. “And do you intend to exploit those perks to get your own job after Hogwarts?”

“No,” Harry said with distaste. “But if it helps you…”

Draco shook his head and smiled sadly. “No thank you, Harry. You already spoke for me at my trial. Is Harry Potter going to keep jumping in as my personal spokesperson?” he joked.

Harry shrugged. “If that’s what it takes.” He looked into bright gray eyes. “You deserve a second chance.”

They continued to stare each other, until Draco sighed and looked away, eyes narrowed. There was a silence while Harry tried to pinpoint the cause of Draco's sudden frustration. Finally, he turned to Harry, previous turbulence smoothed over and a half-smile on his face. “So what do _you_ want to do after this? I’m willing to bet there are a lot of doors open. Still set on becoming Auror Potter?”

Harry furrowed his brow. “I have no idea what I want.” Draco raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “Really,” Harry added.

“Just surprised your immediate answer isn’t Auror.”

“You seem to have a lot of preconceived notions about me,” Harry answered, clearly disgruntled.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

Harry groaned. “That’s half the problem right there. Everyone seems to have some idea of who I am and what I want and what’s best for me, when I don’t even know,” Harry ranted, staring at his shoes. He looked up quickly at Draco and winced. “Sorry. I must seem ungrateful to you.”

“It’s fine. I think I can appreciate your position.” He gave Harry a thin lipped smile. “Although, at least people are thinking good things about you.”

“That’s true, I suppose. Who knew you were such an optimist?” Harry joked.

“I’m a man of many talents,” Draco said dryly.

Harry felt a light flush on his cheeks, becoming overly distracted by the implications of Draco’s statement. His mind flashed through snippets of the dream he’d had a few weeks back, as well as a series of images his brain had helpfully supplied while he was in the shower. As far as Harry knew, Draco had only been with Parkinson, but who really knew what Slytherins got up to in closed quarters? Harry's thoughts turned to Draco's future relationships, and he realized that Draco would almost certainly marry some lovely, pureblood witch. A spark of jealousy leapt from his heart to his throat at the thought, and before he could consider the words, they were out. “Do you want kids?”

Draco’s hands, which had been drumming nervously on his kneecaps, stilled. He turned to face Harry, one eyebrow raised. “Are you asking me to bare your children, Potter?”

Harry felt his face warm even more, sure that despite the darkness his flush must be noticeable now. “No, you git. I’m just wondering.”

Draco sighed. “I don’t know. Honestly? The idea exhausts me. I can barely take care of myself, and I am certainly failing at taking care of other people. How could I possibly be responsible for another human being?” Harry furrowed his brow, confused. “My mother is – ” he paused, swallowing thickly, “not doing well since the war.” Shaking his head, he continued. “But no matter. Maybe someday I’ll feel differently.” He laughed bitterly. “It is my responsibility to produce the perfect Malfoy heir.”

“You don’t seem very excited about that prospect.”

He shook his head dismissively. “I couldn’t care less about all that shit.” He paused. “I’m not even – ” he stopped talking and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “I don’t know that I’ll ever get married,” he concluded. Harry was still trying to understand what he meant by this when Draco continued, voiced tinged with bitterness. “I'm not sure any of it matters anymore, what with my father in Azkaban and my mother feeling… fragile since the war. I'd say my well-connected spouse and offspring aren't at the top of the Malfoy priority list like they used to be.”

Harry hadn't given the post-war Malfoy family dynamic much thought, and Draco's description of their plight bothered a little. Harry wanted to comfort him, but knew from experience that Draco was much more likely to lash out when he was feeling vulnerable and would probably not appreciate the gesture. Finally, he found his voice. “I'm sorry.” It seemed insufficient.

“For what?”

“Your family.”

“No you're not,” Draco argued, suddenly angry.

“Yes, I am,” Harry defended. Draco continued to glare at him. “Okay, truthfully, I'm not sorry your dad's in Azkaban. He did a lot of shitty things, and he deserves it. But I am sorry things are bad for you and your mum.” It came out in a rush, and Harry hoped he wouldn't regret speaking his mind.

Draco continued to appraise Harry, his glare slowly smoothing to neutral, and then moments later, he barked out a laugh, shaking his head slightly. “Well, at least you're straightforward with me. It's actually refreshing.” He laughed again. “It's hard to believe this is real. I think if someone tried to tell me I'd be discussing my family dynamics with Harry Potter, I'd have thought they were having me on.” One corner of his mouth quirked up. “It's like some sort of alternate reality, this thing between you and me,” he finished, gesturing between the two of them.

Harry smiled. Draco's soft drawling voice resounded through his head. _This thing between you and me_. Gathering his courage, he attempted honesty in turn. “Whatever this is,” he echoed Draco's gesturing, “I like it. You don't treat me like I'm anything special or like I'm going to break. And you call me on my crap.”

Draco looked down, embarrassed and trying to contain a smile by biting his cheek. He finally allowed the smile, small and controlled but sly, and said, “Why wouldn't I? You're still the same prat you've always been.” Harry knocked his shoulder into Draco's. They sat in silence for a few minutes more, Harry basking in the buzz of their brief physical contact and Draco's acknowledgment of their friendship.

“Anyway, what about you, Potter?”

Harry tried to mask his disappointment at hearing his surname on Draco's lips. “What about me, what?” _Eloquent, Harry_ , he thought to himself.

Draco smirked. “Will you satisfy the world's desire for happy endings? Marry the Weaselette and produce ten perfect, red-headed Gryffindors?”

Harry glared at him, then said, “No. _Ginny_ and I will not be marrying. We're not together anymore.”

Draco's eyes widened. “That _is_ news. I imagine there's a great deal of disappointment surrounding this development?”

“You could say that,” Harry grumbled.

“On the bright side, witches everywhere will rejoice, contenting themselves with the notion that the Chosen One could be theirs.” Draco smirked again, relishing Harry's discomfort.

“There you go with the optimism again.” Harry scowled at Draco, earning himself a grin.

“Half the wizards too,” Draco added, his grin broadening. Harry felt himself grow pink once more. Draco, noticing Harry's flush, laughed and then shrugged. “You are rather handsome,” he admitted, and Harry's eyes widened, his face heating even more. “Well, you could be, if you would wear clothes that fit you and comb your hair once in a while,” he amended, eying Harry up and down. “But you do look nice in my scarf.”

Thoroughly embarrassed, he still couldn't decide if Draco was teasing him. It seemed to Harry that the least incriminating and most reasonable response would be picking up a snitch-sized stone and tossing it at Draco. The stone hit Draco softly square in the chest, his eyes widening comically in surprise.

“How old are you, Potter?” he chastised, but he was already scooting back from Harry, scooping up a stone of his own with his eyes full of gleeful vengeance, ready to retaliate. Harry dodged the return fire, but the stone landed in the water, causing a splash disproportionate to its size. Harry jumped at the noise. He glanced at Draco, hoping he hadn't seen, but unfortunately he had, and they both broke into laughter.

Trying to dispel the embarrassment, Harry sorted through the stones by his feet, uncovering a flat piece of shale which he skipped across the water's surface. The stone made five hops before it sank.

“How did you do that?” Draco demanded.

“Do what?”

“That thing you just did. With the stone jumping across the water.”

“You mean skipping the stone?”

“You did it without a wand.” He was simultaneously impressed and accusatory.

“It's not magic,” Harry explained. “Have you never seen someone skip a stone before?” Draco shook his head, an air of petulance to the motion. Harry grinned. “Is it a muggle thing?” he asked, while searching for a second stone. He stood, this time projecting the stone with more precision and care, watching with satisfaction as it skipped ten times. Draco leapt eagerly to his feet with a fat, round stone in his hand. “You'll need a flat one,” Harry instructed, and Draco crouched to search, leaving Harry to stare at the way his pants stretched over his arse. Harry looked back at the lake when he realized what he was doing, feeling aroused but also ashamed for ogling someone who was likely neither aware of nor reciprocated his romantic attachments.

Selecting a suitable stone, Draco stood once more, brought his elbow back in imitation of Harry, and flung the stone with all his might. It promptly thwacked into the water, and Harry chuckled a little at the pout that wrinkled Draco's brow. He ignored the glare that Draco shot back, picked up a new stone, and demonstrated again, this time highlighting the position of his fingers as well as explaining how he held the flat side parallel to the water and describing how to release the stone. Explaining the process was foreign and required a bit of thought to frame it properly. Harry had never really considered his methods, relying mostly on instinct and repetition for his success. Draco watched, miming Harry's actions as he explained each step, and once Harry finished throwing the stone – nine skips – Draco hastened to try again. With his brow pinched in concentration, he followed Harry's instructions, his stone skipping daintily across the water twice before sinking. He turned to Harry and huffed a sigh. “What did I do wrong? Why didn't it hop as many times as yours?”

Harry laughed. “You didn't do anything wrong.” Draco frowned at him. “I mean, maybe you could try for a bit more spin next time,” he amended, miming a vigorous throw to make his point. “But really. Not bad. That's how I started out, too.”

“When did you learn to do this?”

“Summers at the Dursley's. My Aunt and Uncle,” he elaborated when Draco tilted his head in question. “I used to go to a pond near their house and skip stones for hours. There wasn't a lot to do there, and it was better than hanging around the house waiting for them to yell at me,” he added glumly.

“They were the muggles you lived with?” Draco asked, and Harry nodded. “They sucked?” Harry nodded again. “Sorry.” Draco said sincerely. “How do you not hate muggles then?” he asked seriously.

Harry thought for a moment. “Well, Voldemort sucked, right? But I don't hate all Slytherins.”

“Don’t you?” Draco said, feigning shock.

“Not usually, you cheeky bastard,” Harry responded. Draco rolled his eyes, then bent to pick up another stone while Harry pretended not to ogle. Making a fresh attempt, Draco managed two skips. He growled in frustration, and Harry bit back a chuckle.

“Can I try to help?” Harry asked, stepping up behind Draco. Turning his head to find mere centimeters between them, Draco's eyes widened in surprise, but he didn't object, so Harry wrapped his hand around Draco's, which was in turn wrapped around a stone. Harry knew that this was a futile endeavor, but nevertheless wanted to use this perfectly legitimate excuse to pull Draco's body tight to his and hold his hand. He could feel Draco tense as he closed the space between them. “Relax your shoulders,” Harry whispered near his ear, willing his voice not to shake. Draco glanced at Harry briefly, eyes wide, blinked once, and then turned back to face the lake, but Harry could feel his shoulders release the tension they were holding. He drew back Draco's arm, then snapped it forward, hoping he was wrong, that it'd be successful enough for Draco to forget his discomfort. Instead, the stone went flying out from beneath their hands at an odd angle and thunked into the water close to the shore, splashing Draco's robes.

Draco turned to face Harry, still wide-eyed but a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “Well that worked brilliantly, Harry,” he said sardonically, but he remained centimeters from Harry's face, staring into his eyes.

Harry blinked back for a minute, but then stepped away, every part of his body a live wire. “It would help if you gave me something to work with,” he teased. Draco scoffed and turned back to the lake with renewed determination.

Side-by-side, they continued to skim stones, Draco's occasionally skipping three times, but often just once or twice, if not plopping miserably into the water, refusing to skip at all. Harry tried not to pay Draco too much attention, as to keep him from becoming self-conscious, but when he saw the next stone skip farther than usual, his head snapped up to watch. Draco followed this success with another, his stone hopping six times before succumbing to gravity. “See, you're getting the hang of it,” Harry nudged Draco and grinned at him. Draco grinned back, then angling his body away from Harry's, he picked up another stone, and flung it out towards the middle of the lake. It traveled at least five meters before it reached the water's surface and began to skip, at which point it jumped fifteen times before settling in the depths.

Harry turned to Draco, stunned. He grinned, excited by Draco's improvement. “That was – ” he paused, searching for a word that conveyed his amazement properly. Draco grinned maniacally, and suddenly, Harry's excitement gave way to suspicion. “You bloody cheater!” Harry exclaimed, smacking Draco's shoulder. Draco laughed. In his left hand, his wand was tucked into his sleeve, just barely poking out. “And here I was, thinking that my instruction had led to your great success,” Harry complained.

“It did. It led me to the knowledge that I needed magic to be any good at this,” Draco clarified. Harry rolled his eyes. “I'm just using all the tools at my disposal. It's called being resourceful.”

“It's called being a Slytherin,” Harry retorted. Draco grinned wider. There was an easy silence, in which Harry begrudgingly smiled back at Draco, but after a minute, Draco sighed and looked up at the stars. “It's getting late. We should go.” Harry nodded once, suddenly noticing the heaviness of his own limbs as fatigue overtook him. He'd been fighting sleep for too long.

They traipsed across the lawn in silence. Hearing a noise, Harry glanced at Draco to find him fiddling with his pack of cigarettes. “Why do you smoke?” Harry asked, the curiosity he'd felt since that first night finally bursting through the surface.

Draco's eyes widened, and it took him a moment to respond. “It keeps me alert.” He tilted his head, as if weighing his words. “It calms me,” he added.

“You know it's bad for your health, right?” Harry asked, wincing a little, hoping he was coming off as a concerned friend rather than a self-righteous arsehole.

“So is not sleeping. Or not dressing warmly enough. Or fighting Dark Lords,” Draco shot back, raising an eyebrow as if to dare Harry to continue nit-picking his bad habits. “Or not watching where you're going,” Draco added, reaching a hand out and yanking Harry to his feet as he stumbled into a divot. He shook his head, trying not to laugh.

Harry brushed himself off, and ignoring his bruised dignity, and sighed. “How can I argue with that?”

“You can't.” The crossed into the entrance hall and Draco lowered his voice a little. “Persuasion is just one of many things I excel at. Like skipping stones.” His expression was serious, but his eyes betrayed a glint of humor.

Harry shook his head. “I think you mean that you excel at cheating.”

“Are you still on about that? It happened ages ago,” he responded cheekily.

“Since when was ten minutes ages ago?” Harry retorted, shaking his head but smiling.

They slowed to a stop, reaching the turnoff for the dungeons. Harry made to turn the direction of Gryffindor tower, when he felt a hand on his, holding him in place. “Wait, Potter.” Draco looked uncomfortable. “Harry,” he corrected, softly. “Thank you. For coming tonight.” Harry nodded, not quite sure what to say to Draco's unprecedented and rather intense gratitude. Bright gray eyes shone into his own for a moment, full of some emotion Harry couldn't place. “Sleep well.” With that parting sentiment, Draco withdrew his hand and turned away, gracefully navigating the stairs that descended to the lower levels.

“You too, Draco,” Harry called out softly into the darkness, unsure whether or not he was heard.


	10. Bad Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is coming so late! It was a difficult chapter to write. The next one is already underway, though!
> 
> Thank you for the kind words and kudos you've left - they kept me working at this chapter when I wanted to just say fuck it. : )

Draping a thick cloak around his body, Draco emerged from the Slytherin common room into the lantern-lit corridor. He paused, ensuring the only sound was his own quiet breathing, then proceeded up the stone stairwell into the Entrance Hall. Patches of light spilled in gentle waves through the high, stained-glass windows. As he padded across the stone floor, the colors painted ghostly patterns on his skin, until, slipping through the front doors, he stole silently into the fog.

He strode purposefully towards the lake, biting back a hopeful smile even though it had been a miserable week, and by all rights, he should have been cross. The rumor that he was dating Luna had taken on a life of its own, spinning wildly into accounts of misfortunes suffered by Luna at Draco’s hands. The _Daily Prophet_ in particular had recommended that she be tested for Amortentia poisoning, speculating that her innocence had left her susceptible to “nefarious actions from disgraced ex-Death Eaters.” In spite of the article’s vague, unsubstantiated inaccuracies – its most compelling argument was that “an unnamed eyewitness saw Malfoy slip a potion in Lovegood’s morning pumpkin juice last week – it had still prompted hundreds of letters to rain down on him each morning over breakfast, offering sadistic, if not creative, wishes for his swift demise. He hated to imagine the contents of the letters that hadn’t been allowed through security screening.

But the _Prophet_ article seemed a factual, well-researched report when compared with the rumors floating around school. He had overheard an exceptionally dim-witted set of first-year Hufflepuffs suggesting that he was secretly a vampire and had hoodwinked Luna into serving as his blood-slave. Pansy had laughed until tears spilled out of her eyes. His personal favorite, due to his ironic lack of appeal amongst his classmates this year, was that he had evoked deeply recessed Veela magic to unfairly ensnare Luna. He couldn’t decide which insinuation was most insulting: that he’d require unnatural resources to woo someone, that he’d form a relationship with someone against their will, or, given that the someone in question was Luna, that she’d ever let any of these fates befall her, alleged naiveté aside.

Although most students were ostensibly clever enough to discredit reports of non-human versions of Draco, it appeared that many still believed he was taking advantage of Luna in some manner. Ravenclaw house as a whole had become protective of her, glaring at him in the hallways and employing trip jinxes when professors turned their heads. He would merely grit his teeth, dust off his clothes, and remind himself that he’d endured worse, all the while finding humor in the fact that the trip-jinx instigators were the same people who had typically exhibited indifference-bordering-on-cruelty towards Luna in the past. Even Ginevra Weasley, who Draco took to be Luna’s closest friend and had always considered to be bright, had been throwing curious, albeit not unfriendly, glances towards him this week. He found himself mourning the long-gone aura of invisibility he’d carefully constructed for himself this year.

By the end of the week, the worst of the hostility had fizzled out, at which point Luna had thrown fodder at the gossip mill by approaching Draco at dinner and announcing that although she was flattered, she “wasn’t interested in a relationship right now.” Draco had glowed red and sunk low in his seat as heads from every table, staff included, turned to stare and snigger.

Having had enough, Draco had burst into the Slytherin common room and immediately rounded on Blaise and Theo. 

“What the fuck?” he growled, red-faced and fractious. “I’m of half a mind to hex you both!”

Blaise and Theo looked up from their game of chess to regard Draco. Theo’s gaze was cool and wary, but Blaise grinned amicably at Draco from a leather armchair, the portrait of ease. “Sorry, mate. That one got away from us,” he chuckled.

“That’s clear,” Draco retorted, “but it’s of little comfort given that even the bloody papers have picked up your bullshit.”

“Relax, Draco,” Blaise said gently, holding a hand up and leaning forward in his chair to peer at him. “No one believes the _Prophet_ anymore,” Blaise reasoned.

“I’ve vanished hundreds of letters this week that directly contradict that sentiment.”

Blaise sighed. “I amend my statement. No one of any _substance_ believes the _Prophet_ anymore. Plus, I think we can all agree that your fan mail has been highly entertaining,” he added with a smirk. Theo grimaced next to him, his shoulders stiff as he fidgeted with a discarded pawn. His family had experienced its share of ugly press incidents after the war, and Theo had likewise struggled to slither into the background at the start of term. Feeling as though Theo deserved the discomfiture, Draco ignored him, choosing to instead glare at the friend who was making light of his predicament.

Pansy, who had been observing from across the room, sauntered over to insert herself into the drama. “What in Merlin’s name is going on here? Is Draco threatening to suck your blood, Blaise?” she inquired, grinning lasciviously and waggling her eyebrows at a group of first years who were attempting to eavesdrop. Blaise’s eyes flitted to Pansy, and his lips twitched, but he ignored the question.

“No, although he did threaten to hex us,” Theo replied dryly.

“Tsk, tsk, Draco. Use your words,” she scolded, earning herself a snigger from Blaise and Theo and a dirty look from Draco.

Wearing the most serious expression in his arsenal, Blaise faced Draco squarely and said, “Draco, we’re sincerely sorry for your troubles. And to set the record straight, we are aware that you’re not a vampire. In fact, I’d be so bold as to release a public announcement to that effect, if it would be helpful,” Blaise insisted.

“I can see the headlines now,” Draco sighed grumpily, running an agitated hand through his hair. “You are aware that I’m not even dating Lovegood, correct?”

“Of course. We’ve always been under the impression that your type is rather more… athletic, shall we say? And less eccentric,” Blaise returned with a smirk.

Mouth twisting to obscure a smile, Theo muttered, “If only a little,” and Blaise turned to openly grin at him.

Suddenly worried that she had informed them of his Potter-shaped confession from earlier in the week, Draco shot a panicked glance at Pansy. She shook her head minutely, brow furrowed, then straightened out her features as Blaise turned back to face Draco once more.

Wry smile intact, Blaise added, “Not to say that you and Lovegood wouldn’t have made a handsome couple.”

“Just think – your babies would be _so_ blond,” Pansy supplied, clearly delighted.

Theo smirked. “She’s a pureblood, as well.”

“See? An excellent match. I can sense Mummy and Daddy Malfoy’s approval already.” Blaise grinned up at Draco.

“Hexing the lot of you wasn’t an idle threat,” Draco grumbled, and Pansy chuckled. “I don’t know what _you’re_ laughing about,” he shot in her direction. “You’ve been no help to me at all.” She raised her eyebrows as if to say, _Who? Me?_ Draco rolled his eyes. “You’ve helped them torture me all week, so don’t think you’ll be exempt from the punishment.” He raised his chin petulantly.

“Torture and punishment? I didn’t know you were into that, Draco,” she said, her eyes glinting wickedly. Blaise and Theo sniggered. “Can I forgo punishment if I decide on a proper hex for them?”

“I’ll consider it…” Draco said loftily.

“In that case, I propose using some sort of frostbite hex. It’s not as though they really _need_ all of their fingers to pass their N.E.W.T.s.”

Theo raised an eyebrow. “We’re quaking, Parkinson.”

Making a show of deliberating, Draco finally sighed and sunk into the chair adjacent to Blaise. “Fine. I shan’t hex any of you. Today. But – ” he smirked, “I’ll keep the frostbite hex on hand for the next time you fuck up.”

Blaise grinned. “I’d expect nothing less.”

“Bloody wankers, all of you.” Draco muttered impotently as he extracted his charms text from his bag.

“For what it’s worth, we are truly sorry that this got out of hand.” Glancing up, he was surprised to find real remorse on Blaise’s face. It was unnervingly out-of-character. Draco nodded once to accept the apology, and Blaise’s expression became mischievous. “However, if you’ve still got a mind to hex someone, I suggest the elder Greengrass. After all, we may have inadvertently started the rumor, but she’s responsible for it spreading.”

Daphne’s absence was notable as Draco scanned the room, and sighing again, he conceded. “I suppose there are worse things people could be saying about me.” He flipped open his charms text to the pages on undetectable extension charms which they were meant to be reading for tomorrow’s class, but prickling under the sensation of eyes watching him, he returned his attention to his friends. All three were now all staring at him as if he’d sprouted a second head. “What?”

“I just don’t think you’ve ever let something like this go before,” Blaise admitted with amusement.

Draco scowled. “Yes, well, I’ve matured.”

Pansy laughed. “Right, matured. Couldn’t possibly be anything else.” She winked, and Theo glanced between them curiously.

“Fuck off, Pansy,” he retorted, but without much malice.

She laughed throatily, and as she sauntered away, called out, “As you wish,” leaving him to his studying.

And she had been right. There was a reason he hadn’t become truly incensed about any of it, a reason with a wild mop of black hair and stupidly green eyes towards whom he was currently tromping with a daft smile on his face. Harry had helped him through the worst of his frustration and despair this week, offering swift smiles of solidarity between classes when students loudly disparaged Draco, or shaking with silent laughter when Pansy had made a crack about his supposed vampirism after potions one day. 

And then at night by the lake, he had soothed Draco’s worries, told him about his own experiences being the villain: when the school believed he was the Heir of Slytherin in second year, when Rita Skeeter was printing horrible things about him in fourth and fifth year, which Draco had admittedly played a role in, and when everyone thought he had lied about Voldemort’s return. Each time that Draco brimmed with self-pity, he would recall the surprising patience which Harry afforded his moods, his calming presence, his smiles, his fingertips brushing Draco’s, his body pressed against his from behind, his face entirely too close, eyes bright and determined, and Draco would feel better, safer, less angry. Confused.

He carried that squirmy mix of giddy confusion and desire as he crossed Hogwarts’ grounds towards the moonlit bank where Harry and he ritualistically met, casting any latent frustration aside. Scanning the area from afar, Draco could see no signs of life, just still night and gently rolling fog. His heart sank. He surmised that Harry, too busy being the Savior, hadn’t ventured down to the lake tonight. On nights when Harry skipped, Draco had to fight back the panic which turned their picturesque shoreline into an ominous nightmare-waiting-to-happen, and he would silently curse Harry all night, unjustly blaming him for the thoughts and dreams that plagued him. Draco would skip their meetings, too, sometimes, so he didn’t seem so damn eager, even though he was. He fought with himself those nights, the rational part of his brain imploring him to quit behaving like a petulant child and to allow himself to be happy. His stubbornness always won out, and he never slept well those nights.

He picked up his pace, hoping that Harry was simply waiting beyond the tree line, out of sight from his position but still very much there. As he moved closer to the lake, a peculiar whimpering arose, seeming to emanate from the mist itself. He hurtled around the copse of trees that partially secluded their lakeshore spot, wand held out in front of him, and found Harry lying on a grassy slope near to the edge of the woods. Harry was whimpering and thrashing, as if attempting to fight off some invisible attacker. Draco stowed his wand and moved closer to Harry’s prostrate form. His eyes were closed so tightly that wrinkles fanned outward from the corners. His brow was furrowed and his mouth clenched in undeniable anguish. Wet tear tracks stained his cheeks.

Frozen in the wake of his discovery, Draco watched in horror as Harry writhed below him. _The hero of the wizarding world is sobbing in his sleep beneath my feet_ , his brain supplied unhelpfully. Seeing Harry like this, small and lost and terrified, he saw himself, and he wondered what he would want from Harry were the situation reversed, if he had been the one reduced to tears by his nightmares. _Not to be alone_ , he decided, and the thought snapped him into action. Crouching down next to him, he cradled Harry’s left hand in his own and spoke his name softly. Harry stopped flailing, but continued to whimper, face still twisted in distress. Gently, he shook Harry’s shoulder to wake him.

Harry’s eyes snapped open and Draco was thrown suddenly to the ground. He found himself flat on his back, rendered helpless by the wand Harry had pressed to his throat and the blazing eyes which glared down at him. As Harry hovered over him, face fierce and feral, Draco could see him as the hero who vanquished the Dark Lord. He was terrifying. 

“It’s me, Harry,” he said quietly, voice shaking, eyes searching Harry’s as they both gasped for breath. Slowly, the fire dimmed from Harry’s eyes, confusion filling the void. “You were having a nightmare,” he said more steadily.

Still breathing hard, Harry put away his wand and sat back on his heels. He scrunched his face in anguish again, scrubbing his eyes angrily. Draco sat up cautiously and reached out a gentle hand to touch Harry’s arm. He tried to think of something – _anything_ – comforting to say, but came up short. He considered telling Harry that whatever he was seeing and feeling right now, whatever it was that had dulled the brightness in his eyes and erased his smile, it wasn’t real. But who was he to profess such things? He didn’t know the content of the dream, and besides, just because it was happening inside Harry’s head didn’t mean it wasn’t real, at least to him. Instead, he pulled Harry into his arms, momentarily unfussed about what such a gesture indicated, just wanting to reassure him that he was not alone.

Harry collapsed into his chest, resting his chin on Draco’s shoulder, his hair tickling Draco’s cheek. Draco ran his fingers through Harry’s hair. It was soft, not wiry as he had expected, and there was so much of it, poking in unnatural directions and stuck with bits of grass and leaves from flailing about on the ground. The scent of the outdoors, apples, and wood-fire smoke, which seemed to be embedded in Harry’s hair, clothes, and skin, wove a hazy circuit through Draco’s brain, until the source abruptly disappeared.

Harry had pulled back, breathing hard again, and there was a different fire in his eyes. Suddenly, Draco was on his back once more, his hips pinned down by the weight of Harry’s body straddling his, and there were lips on his jaw, on his neck, breathing, “ _You’re here_ ,” between kisses.

Draco reacted moments later, twisting his head to crash their lips together, feeling Harry’s breath hitch against him. He pushed back into Harry with his hips, his chest, his mouth, pulling him tighter with arms that crept around his back and entwined together tightly until there was no space between them. Harry was everywhere, every breath, every thought.

Draco turned his head away. “Wait.” He could barely comprehend that his own lips had uttered the word. Harry pulled back, confusion and – _dammit_ – hurt clear on his face. “Is this really what you need right now?” Draco winced a little. _Why are you ruining this?_ he yelled at himself silently.

Harry stared at him, a mess of desire, confusion, and anger fighting for dominance on his face. Apparently finding whatever he was searching for in Draco’s eyes, he growled out a rough, “Yes,” then lunged forward, cold lips and warm breath skating over Draco’s throat once more, hands yanking down Draco’s scarf to expose more skin. When Harry’s lips worked their way to his mouth again, Draco instantly surrendered, knitting his fingers into Harry’s hair, and before he could stop himself, he was kissing back, his whole body roaring its approval. Harry’s tongue flickered on Draco’s lips, eliciting a quiet gasp, and Harry took advantage of his parted lips, sliding their tongues together, gently at first, then with a roughness befitting the rest of his motions. Draco slid his hands down Harry’s torso, fingers strumming the outline of his ribcage, finding his hips so he could pull Harry down, harder, tighter against him, before he groaned and withdrew again.

“Harry.” It was both a plea and a warning. Harry climbed off from him, jaw clenched, cheeks flushed, and staring resolutely at the ground. Draco grabbed his hand, hating himself for having caused that expression. “It’s just – you’re upset right now. Perhaps it’s not the best time?”

Harry paused then nodded tersely, still looking away from Draco, but his jaw unclenched. Giving Harry’s hand a gentle squeeze, Draco waited for Harry to face him, then offered an apologetic smile. Harry visibly relaxed, and with a sigh, slumped back to the ground, lying with his arms folded beneath his head so he could gaze at the fog-obscured sky. “I’m so bloody tired,” he sighed, and in those words, Draco felt rather than heard Harry’s fatigue. All at once, as if Harry’s exhaustion had seeped into him, he felt so weary that he couldn’t fathom how he had possibly been carrying on like this for so many months.

“I am, too,” he admitted, lying down beside Harry. Curling his body to the side, he rested his head atop Harry’s shoulder, startling him briefly. He gazed down at Draco, expression unreadable. Then, returning his gaze skyward, he wrapped his arm around Draco’s back, tugging him ever-so-slightly closer, and took Draco’s hand in his free hand.

Each sensation was contradictory. The feeling of his head on Harry’s shoulder was foreign and unnatural, yet he wanted to sink further into the pillowy warmth and never move again. The arm which swept around his back with its hand resting softly on his hip left the swaths of skin beneath it scorched, defying the cold prickles rising up the back of his neck. His thoughts lingered on the kiss, stoking a steady fire in his core. He still felt traces of Harry on his jaw, neck, lips. He could still taste him on his tongue and hear whispered _you’re here_ ’s promising that he was wanted.

Amidst the sensory overload, Draco found comfort in the sound of Harry’s breathing, which had slowed to an easy pace that accompanied the lazy but rhythmic circles he drew on Draco’s hand with his thumb. A still-erratic heartbeat betrayed Harry’s lingering anxiety, though; with his head on Harry’s shoulder, Draco could both hear and feel Harry’s heart pounding out a quick, irregular rhythm against his chest, matching the jaggedly pulsing blood in Draco’s own veins. Realizing that he, too, was tense, he exhaled slowly in loud hiss of air. Harry turned his head at the sound, and then released a long breath of his own, and after a few minutes, Draco was satisfied to note that Harry’s heart decided against pounding its way out of his chest and resumed a slower, more steady tempo.

Draco was unsure how long they’d been lying there, silently inhaling and exhaling and, in Draco’s case, getting caught up in the strange mix of wonderful impossibilities that had come to life tonight, when Harry’s hand stopped caressing his. His breath had grown longer and louder, and his hand gave a small twitch, followed by a slightly more violent one, and Draco smiled. The Boy Who Was Tired had fallen asleep on the lawn for the second time tonight. Draco could only hope sleep would be kinder to him this time around. _At least I’ll be here if it’s not_ , he thought to himself, nestling deeper into Harry’s side, and feeling Harry’s arm unconsciously pulling him closer in response. Caving into the desire to be warm and wanted, he closed his eyes for just a second…

* * *

“Draco.” He was being shaken, and none too gently. He sat up, startled. Blinking a few times, he was surprised to find that he was cold and damp and sitting on the ground next to Harry, the sky splashed with pinks and golds from the east. They had spent the night sleeping huddled together on the shores of the lake. “We need to go inside.”

“Shit,” Draco hissed, clambering to his feet with the poor coordination of the not-quite-awake, realizing belatedly that his left foot had fallen asleep. They headed back towards the castle, rendered silent under the weight of embarrassment and uncertainty. Reliving the kiss once more, he kicked himself again for ending it, wondering how Harry was feeling about it. He glanced over at Harry, who was staring at the ground, jaw clenched and eyes intense. Reaching the turnoff for the Slytherin Dungeons, they paused, Draco searching for eyes that wouldn’t meet his. “Well,” he began, “that –”

Harry’s eyes swept up to meet Draco’s, so full of regret that Draco quit speaking, suddenly feeling choked. “I’m sorry,” Harry said, brow furrowed. He nodded once, as if making a decision, then turned and strode briskly across the Entrance Hall toward the stairs, smile noticeably absent from his face. Draco’s heart sank, rejection and shame prickling in his eyes as he fled to the Slytherin dormitories, wondering which part Harry was sorry for.


	11. Detectable Extensions

Harry twisted in his seat, feigning a casual glance at the large pendulum clock which was swishing out the passage of time with unusual lethargy at the back of the classroom.  Allowing his eyes to flicker towards Draco, he watched the quick jerks of his quill scratching out what was likely a meticulous set of notes, before facing frontward once more.  He sighed.  Fifty minutes of class remained, Draco was still ignoring him, and Flitwick was mid-enthusiastic soliloquy on the theory behind Undetectable Extension Charms, meaning little had changed since five minutes prior when he’d last caved and allowed himself a surreptitious glance at Draco.  Shimmying straighter, he resolved to focus on the lecture, but just minutes later, he was slumped in his chair, head propped in one hand while his other tapped idly on the desktop, contemplating the slow trickle of time and convincing himself that Draco hated him.

Harry would have given his left pinkie for a time turner right now; he was desperate to salvage the wreckage of the previous night, which had wreaked the sort of havoc one generally associates with natural disasters.  First, he’d succumbed to sleep while waiting for Draco at their lakeshore hideout, sinking effortlessly into a familiar nightmare of frozen mist and swooping, hooded figures bearing down on Sirius.  With their clammy, decaying skin, and gaping mouths, they had hovered over him, claiming him with each rattling breath.  The dream had blurred into reality when Harry woke prone on a lakeshore with a figure hovering over him, at which point a catastrophic conglomeration of terror, exhaustion, and poor impulse control had moved Harry to assault Draco, first with his wand and then with his lips.

He had been attracted to the caustic prat for months – longer, perhaps, if he were being honest – and had wanted him since the erotic dream several weeks ago, but this past week had been revelatory for Harry.  He’d discovered that he genuinely liked Draco, hungered to hear his opinions and watch his ever-changing facial expressions flitting from remote to pensive and sometimes, if he could coax it out, opening into unguarded contentment.  After the _Prophet_ ’s recent assault, he’d found a vulnerable Draco each night by the lake – a vulnerable Draco veiled behind biting remarks and deflections as usual, but one who ultimately accepted Harry’s comfort and advice, and he could no longer maintain that physical attraction was all he felt for Draco.

When he found himself in Draco’s arms, swimming in the heady blend of gratitude and desire, he had foregone rational thought in favor of other senses.  And Draco _had_  kissed back, however brief.  He’d pressed his body plane-for-plane into Harry’s, clutching at him just as frantically, and under threat of _Cruciatus_ , Harry still would have sworn that he, too, was hard beneath his robes.  But then he’d pulled away, citing logic and soothing the sting of rejection with a soft, un-Draco-like smile, but he’d still stopped the kiss.

Harry had been arguing with himself all day.  

_You were upset and leapt on him like a beast.  You held your wand to his fucking throat._

_He comforted you.  He didn’t care.  He understood._

_He pitied you.  He went along with your kiss until he could politely reject it without upsetting you._

_That’s not the sort of kissing someone does out of pity.  Nor does it explain why he was hard._

_But you can’t be sure he was hard, can you?  He pulled away.  He didn’t want you._

_He slept with you on the grass until dawn._

_He pulled away.  He pulled away.  He won’t even look at you now.  He pulled away._

It was difficult to ignore the nagging negativity when it was at least partially true.  Although Harry had been staring shamelessly, Draco would jolt away when their eyes met, and Harry’s heart would sink a bit further. _Stop feeling sorry for yourself_ , he thought. _You can fix this, but first you have to stop being a git and make it through Charms._   As if to make his point, a small wooden box materialized on his desk, catching Harry off-guard and causing his head to lurch from the hand which had been supporting it.  He scanned the neighboring desks.  Catching Neville grinning at him from several seats away, he abandoned all hope that his mishap had gone unnoticed.  Glowing red, he gave Neville a sheepish smile in return, and swore for the twentieth time in as many minutes that he’d focus for the remainder of the lesson.

Flitwick, it seemed, had finished lecturing and was setting them practice with the charm.  Distributing a banana to each of them from a cupboard which contained a confusingly impressive supply of the fruit, he charged them with increasing the inner dimensions of their box to accommodate the banana, prompting Ron to make a series of inappropriate jokes under his breath.  Dean, Seamus, Neville, and Harry, who were all close enough to overhear, chuckled appreciatively, Seamus going as far as to offer a discreet, under-the-table thumbs up, while Hermione, a thin twitching smile contradicting her disapproval, directed a swift stinging hex at Ron’s left kneecap, eyes never straying from the front of the classroom.

Harry examined the box sitting in front of him.  It was about as wide and long as his palm but only deep enough to encompass his first digit.  Sizing the banana against the box, Harry felt confident that with just a nudge of encouragement, the box would easily consent to expanding a few inches in each direction.  Raising his wand and picturing the desired result, he tried to recall what Professor Flitwick had intimated on the subject but irritatingly could only summon white noise and images of Draco.  He shook these out of his head and, trying to recapture the previous image of a charmed box, he cleared his throat and hazarded a first attempt.

“ _Capacious extremis_.”  Harry lifted the lid and peered inside.  Unsurprisingly, no part of his box had been affected.

“Well done, Hermione.”  Ron’s proud voice rang across the classroom, and Flitwick trotted over excitedly.

“Have you succeeded, Ms. Granger?” he squeaked eagerly.

Hermione blushed, and Ron, grinning proudly, lifted the lid of her box to reveal a cavity so large it could have housed the entire contents of the mysterious banana cupboard.  It was empty save her lone banana lying at the bottom.

“Excellent work, Ms. Granger!” Flitwick gushed, causing her blush to deepen.  “I’ve only had two previous students succeed so spectacularly on their first attempt.”

“Show him the bag,” Ron muttered into her ear, prodding her lightly.

Hesitating for a moment, Hermione reached into her satchel to extract the beaded bag whose contents had made possible all of their traipsing about Britain whilst hunting Horcruxes.  “It wasn’t actually my first attempt, Professor,” she explained sheepishly, and he pursed his lips in amused disapproval.  As Hermione had informed Harry on multiple occasions, and presumably Flitwick had been rattling on about not ten minutes prior, Undetectable Extension Charms were not explicitly permissible unless sanctioned by the Ministry.  “There was some necessity for this last year,” she explained, opening the bag to show him its cavernous storage. 

His eyes widened comically.  Lighting up his wand with a nonverbal  _lumos_ , he peered inside so enthusiastically that he tumbled in headfirst, squealing delightedly until Neville and Dean each grabbed an ankle and yanked him back out.  Once he’d been righted, he beamed at Hermione and awarded fifteen points to Gryffindor, eliciting smug smiles from most of the Gryffindor eighth years but irritated grumbling from many of the non-Gryffindor students.  In particular, Anthony Goldstein, who had considered himself something of a Charms whiz before sharing a classroom with Hermione, was sulking at his desk, shooting dirty looks in Hermione’s direction.  Several of the Slytherin contingent were also casting scathing glances in their direction and whispering amongst themselves.  Only one Slytherin really mattered to Harry these days, though, and he had remained fixated on his own box.  Harry couldn’t decide whether Draco’s lack of response irritated or pleased him.

When Hermione was drawn into a conversation with Flitwick about the size and shape of the extension, seguing smoothly into the wisdom behind the charm’s Ministry regulations, much of the class lost interest and returned to their own less successful attempts.  Try as Harry might, his box wouldn’t budge, although at one point, by some combination of desperation and frustration, it had doubled in size, newly adorned with a handsome carved-banana motif.  He quickly restored its previous form with a hasty glance at neighboring desks, hoping nobody had noticed his blunder.  Luckily, Flitwick had wandered towards the other end of the room some minutes prior, and Seamus had drawn attention to himself by loudly blaming his poor concentration on the parameters of the exercise.

“I’m so bloody hungry,” he moaned, leaning back in his chair and rubbing at his stomach theatrically.  “How am I supposed to move the bloody walls of this bloody box when my belly’s rumbling and he’s given me a perfectly good banana?”

Neville and Dean chuckled.  “There’s an obvious solution, you know,” Dean suggested.

“Aye,” Seamus agreed.  “He wants the banana out of sight?  I’ll eat it.  Two birds, one stone.”  Neville shook his head, chuckling lightly and returned to his Charms work, which, as far as Harry could tell, had affected no changes on the box but had turned Neville’s face bright red with the exertion.

Dean raised an eyebrow.  “Not exactly what I had in mind, mate.”  He duplicated his own banana, holding the copy out to Seamus.

Seamus shook his head warily, pushing the banana away.  “No way.  This is the kind of hunger that needs to be satisfied with real food.  It never tastes right when you do that.”  Peeling his own banana, he chomped a large bite off the top.

Dean gave an exasperated sigh.  “It tastes fine.  I lived on cloned food last year, and I’m perfectly healthy.”

“Desperate times, mate.  You did what had to be done.  But we aren’t at war anymore, so I think I’ll enjoy myself now.”  Kicking his feet up on his desk, he finished the banana in two huge bites.

“Did you see how many bananas he had?  How do you know they’re not all duplicates, eh?” Dean challenged, jabbing Seamus in his ribs with a long finger.

“What kind of man hoards fake bananas?” Seamus asked, face aghast with mock-horror.  “No, that was a true,  _bona fide_  banana, my friend,” he replied, vanishing the peel with a flick of his wrist.

Harry grinned to himself, trying the charm once again to no avail, and wishing that he, too, could blame hunger for his lack of focus.

“Where has your banana gotten to, Mr. Finnegan?  Have you been successful?” Full of trepidation, Flitwick’s voice floated over their cluster of desks. 

Seamus swept his feet off the desk, nearly upsetting his box in the process, and swiveled in his chair to address Flitwick.  “Well, I, er, got hungry, Professor,” he responded, having the decency to affect a modicum of guilt.  Dean and Neville snorted with repressed laughter, and Harry bit his cheek to stop from chuckling.

“I see.”  Harry swore he could hear a small sigh escape from Flitwick’s direction.  “I suppose I shall have to summon you another so you can work diligently on your assignment like the rest of your classmates,” he squeaked. “Ah, never mind.  It seems Mr. Thomas has already been thoughtful enough to produce one for you.” Seamus scowled at the cloned banana, and Dean threw him a shit-eating grin.  Flitwick retreated a few steps, then paused and looked back, thoughtful expression plastered across his tiny features.  “Oh, and perhaps five points from Gryffindor to discourage your appetite?”

Seamus frowned, and nodded.  “Sorry, Professor.”  Once Flitwick departed, Seamus sniggered before turning to Hermione and apologizing for losing some of her points.

“Oh,” she exclaimed in surprise, glancing up from helping Ron with his charm.  “That’s quite all right.”  Knowing that in all likelihood Hermione probably _was_  irritated that Seamus had lost Gryffindor points but pleased that he’d respected her feelings enough to apologize, Harry watched the incongruous expressions flash across her face with amusement.

Seamus was not the only one with a creative remedy for their lack of success.  Having cheekily shrunk and stowed his banana within his uncharmed box, Blaise Zabini decided to spend the remainder of the lesson leaning back in his chair with closed eyes.  Harry secretly thought he had the right idea, but something about the smug smirk on Zabini’s face made him unwilling to admit it.

Pausing his circuitous march around the classroom, Flitwick stopped at Zabini’s desk and inquired eagerly about his progress.  Zabini cracked open his eyes and muttered something too soft to hear across the noisy room, gesturing airily towards his box.  Peering over the box with an excited grin, Flitwick’s expression melted into a frown upon lifting the lid and discovering Zabini’s workaround.  He lectured Zabini on wasted potential, conveying the sort of disappointment that, in Harry’s opinion, felt worse than any bout of anger he’d ever incurred from Snape.  Flitwick ultimately took five points from Slytherin, but rather than looking ashamed, Zabini’s smirk remained firmly in place.

As Flitwick walked away, Draco leaned over and murmured something to Zabini, who grinned and winked in response.  Draco rolled his eyes, an almost-smile on his face, then returned to his box, brow knitted in concentration.  Draco’s words of many weeks before returned to Harry.  “ _Blaise has terrible taste in Quidditch, but decent taste in men_ ,” he had drawled with glinting grey eyes and a smirk.  A hot spike of jealousy ripped through him.   _He doesn’t have to stifle his smiles around me_ , he reassured himself, momentarily taking heart in the thought until remembering that he had royally fucked up whatever relationship they had carefully built over the last few weeks.

Turning back to his work, he scowled for all he was worth at his box, which still sat atop his desk, mocking him.  For something so small and unassuming, it was entirely too aggravating, and he wished the blasted box, along with Flitwick, Draco, and everybody else, would sod off so he could enjoy a nap instead.  Glancing at the clock again, he groaned.  How was it possible that there were still twenty minutes left?  Between the tempest brewing in his head and the way that Flitwick typically kept an eye on Harry after one too many errors in his class since the start of term, spending those minutes napping seemed about as likely as successfully charming the frustratingly tiny box.

Searching for a distraction, he looked towards his best friend, but Ron was uncharacteristically engaged in his work.  Under Hermione’s tutelage, he’d succeeded in adding a few inches to his box’s dimensions and could nearly nest the banana within its slightly larger volume.  Ron was one of five who had achieved any sort of Undetectable Extension Charm thus far.  Heartened by his friends’ triumph and determined not to let this ridiculous box make a fool of him, Harry returned to the task at hand, narrowing his eyes in concentration and picturing the desired interior, trying to keep his mind from drifting to the way Draco’s hair had felt underneath his fingertips – like silk, soft and light and fine.

“Careful, Harry!” Hermione gasped, but it was too late.  He had jabbed his wand too emphatically and without the proper determination, and rather than adjusting the dimensions of his box, he had managed to produce a phenomenal engorgement charm on Padma Patil’s chair at the desk in front of his.  Padma, who had quite jarringly just found herself five feet in the air, gripped the edges of her chair with momentary terror, then spun around to glower at Harry.  He felt the heat rise in his cheeks, and muttered a hasty  _reducio_  to return her chair to its proper size.  Most of his classmates were watching the scene with interest, amidst hushed tittering.  Daphne Greengrass and Millicent Bullstrode were hardly keeping their laughter quiet, but ignoring their delighted chortling, Harry’s eyes sought Draco, whose head had snapped up at the commotion.  He wore a pained expression, and upon meeting Harry’s eyes, his own widened.  He ducked his chin to glare down at his own box once more.   _He pulled away_ , his brain echoed unhelpfully.

Flitwick bobbed anxiously over to Harry’s cluster of desks. “Everything alright, Mr. Potter?”

Harry swallowed hard and nodded.  “Just a minor accident, Professor.  Everything’s fine.”  Padma scowled at the notion that her sudden change in elevation had been a “minor accident,” but Harry ignored her, watching as Flitwick walked away, flitting worried glances back at Harry every few steps.

Two desks over, Hermione was scrutinizing him anxiously, too.  “Harry –” she began, but he cut her off.

“Don’t, Hermione,” he said, giving her a cautionary frown. "I know I need to concentrate more.  You telling me isn’t going to help.”

Miffed, she snapped her mouth shut, then raised an eyebrow and tried again.  “I wasn’t going to.  I was just going to tell you that you’ve knocked over your inkwell.”

He glanced to the floor.  A pool of glossy black was spreading rapidly, rolling in large beads down a nearly undetectable grade in the stone and leaving stains in its wake.  “So I have,” he muttered, guilt pricking at his chest. He issued her a sheepish, “I’m sorry,” before muttering a hasty  _reparo_ to fuse the shards of glass and  _accio_  to siphon the ink off the floor and summon the now ink-filled container back atop his desk once more.

“It’s fine,” she replied, graciously accepting his apology with only a hint of pity in her eyes.

Harry pushed aside the stupid box, narrowly avoiding displacing his ink again, and huffed heavily into his hands. “I give up,” he said, the words muffled by his palms, resigning himself to the fact that this lesson had been a bloody fiasco and was unlikely to improve.

His forfeit had come at an opportune time, though, because just moments later, Flitwick called class to order, issued homework, and dismissed them.  In the same instant, Draco shot out of his seat, moving towards the door with the motivation and speed of someone being hunted by werewolves, still shoving books and notes into his bag as he navigated the doorway and disappeared into the corridor beyond.  Awash with despair, Harry watched him leave, then packed up his own belongings.  Slinging the strap of his bag across his chest and shoulders, Harry trailed behind Ron and Hermione as they made their way towards the door.

“Mr. Potter.”

Harry froze and turned to find a concerned, wizened face.  “Yes, Professor?” he said through gritted teeth.

“Do be careful.  It might be best if you practiced your Charms work tonight.  Perhaps Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasley would be so kind as to assist.”

Hermione granted him a smile and answered, “Of course, Professor.”  Harry nodded stiffly next to her, humiliated. 

And suddenly, it was too much.  If he mulled over the events of the previous night in his head one more time, he thought he might go insane.

“Hang on, will you?” Harry murmured, yanking Hermione to a halt by her sleeve.  “I need to talk to you both for a second.”  Hermione slid her bag off her shoulder, setting it gently on the desk nearest her, looking neither surprised nor worried, as Harry had expected she’d be.  They waited as Flitwick strolled out of the classroom, humming absently to himself.  Ron gazed longingly at the brilliant and unusual late-October sunshine pouring through the windows, and Hermione’s lips now carried a small but knowing smile, which Harry had long since learned not to underestimate.  Sighing resignedly, he gathered his courage.

“Everything alright, mate?” Ron asked, examining the tortured expression on Harry’s face.

Harry fiddled with the straps of his bag.  “Yes.”  It came out strangled, and now Hermione was definitely trying not to laugh.  “No.”  He shook his head.  There was a long pause, during which his friends watched him struggle with varying degrees of amusement and anxiety on their faces.  “I, er, snogged a Malfoy,” he finally spat out.

Hermione’s reaction was immediate: a slight widening of her eyes, followed by their crinkling with humor as she took in Ron’s reaction.  It had taken a few seconds to sink in, but his face had begun turning puce, his eyes wide and vacant as if he’d suffered a blow to the head.  Harry glanced at Hermione, imploring her for help.

“I do hope it was Draco,” she supplied cheekily with a flash of a grin, and Ron turned to gape at her blasé attitude towards information that was clearly traumatic to him.

Harry raised an eyebrow.  “Well, actually, I dropped by the Manor last night, and Narcissa’s gotten rather –” he began, dripping with sarcasm.  “Of course it was Draco,” he finished emphatically, narrowing his eyes.  Hermione giggled.

“When?  Where?” Ron demanded, rejoining the conversation. His eyes widened further.  “ _How?_ ” he croaked incredulously, shuddering a little.  Harry’s eyes found Hermione’s, seeking assistance once more, only to have her gaze steadily back at him with curious amusement.   _Come on, Hermione_ , he begged silently, lacking all the graciousness that he knew she deserved,  _Help me out_.  Instead, she gave him a small nod, encouraging him to answer Ron’s choked questions.

Harry sighed.  In for a knut, in for a sickle, he supposed.  “Last night.  We were both by the lake.  We’ve been meeting there for weeks now.  Almost every night.  Last night he was late – or maybe I was early.  I don’t know.”  The memory creeped up on him:  feeling choked by the fog, worrying Draco wouldn’t show, laying down and closing his eyes against ghosts that drew strength from the mist.  He cleared his head with a light shake and continued, “I fell asleep, and when he found me, I was having a nightmare.  He, er, comforted me, and I –” Harry clenched his jaw, feeling embarrassed by his response last night. “I kissed him,” he finished, feeling both vulnerable and defensive.

Ron knitted his eyebrows, looking as if he were still trying to work out the logistics of such a thing, but Hermione’s smile remained intact, and it dawned on Harry.  “You knew, didn’t you?” he asked, somewhat perturbed.  She tried to bite down on her growing smile, and shrugged.  “How in the hell did you know?”

“I didn’t.  Well, not for sure anyway.  I could just tell you’d been having some fairly intense feelings regarding Malfoy recently, which I suppose is nothing out of the usual.”  Harry scowled at the implication, but brushing aside his irritation, she continued.  “The smiles and longing glances, however, were.  Then I noticed he was doing the same to you when you weren’t looking.”

“You knew about this?” Ron asked, incredulous.

“He was?” Harry asked at the same time.

“Yes.  To both of you,” she clarified.

Harry chewed his lip thoughtfully.  He tried to piece this together with what he already knew about Draco’s feelings, which, between Harry’s obtuseness and Draco’s compulsive obfuscation of his own emotions, was very little.

“So, you knew there was something going on this whole time and didn’t think to tell me?” Ron demanded.

Hermione sighed.  “It wasn’t mine to tell.  I figured Harry would come to us when he was ready, and he did,” she said defensively.  “It was just a suspicion anyway,” she added more gently.

“Well, I’m still wrapping my head around it.” Ron turned to scrutinize Harry.  “You’ve been meeting with him for weeks,” he stated, as if testing out the words to see how they sounded.  “You’ve been friends with him for weeks?” he asked, more sharply, still with a hint of hysteria. Harry gave him a pleading and slightly exasperated sigh back.  “Forgive me, mate, but last we heard, you were only contemplating his lonely existence. I didn’t know you’d actually done anything about it,” he exclaimed.

Hermione snorted.  “Well he’s certainly less lonely now,” she muttered and, against his better judgement, Harry sniggered.

Ron ignored the quip.  “Although,” he weighed, continuing to look pensive, “we did know you were sneaking out at night.  I guess we should have known you weren’t alone.”

Harry glanced up at Ron, surprised.  “You knew?”

“Of course we did.  What kind of friends do you think we are?” Ron asked, nostrils flaring with brief indignation.”

“We didn’t want to keep pushing you.  We figured you’d come to us when you were ready to talk about whatever it was.”

Guilty warmth wash over him.  “I don’t deserve you two,” he said, and when Hermione opened her mouth to protest, he cut her off.  “I’m serious.  Thank you,” he insisted, still feeling warm and soppy and incredibly grateful.  Hermione rushed forward and wrapped him in a hug so tight he could barely breathe, and Ron hovered in the background, scrubbing at the back of his hair self-consciously.  Then, taking a step forward, he clapped Harry roughly on the shoulder.

Hermione relinquished her hold on Harry, stepping back, and the three of them stood, Harry and Ron gazing sheepishly at their shoes, and Hermione beaming at both of them, eyes glistening. 

There was a long silence.  “I think I’m gay,” Harry admitted quietly into the hushed room.

Ron and Hermione exchanged a brief look.  “That is what snogging another bloke usually implies,” Ron suggested dryly.

“Are you… upset about it, Harry?” Hermione prodded gently.

Harry shrugged and shook his head.  “No.  I just.  Well.  Aren’t you upset?” he asked, directing a quick glance at Ron.

“That you find blokes attractive?  Should we be?” Ron asked, incredulous.

“Well.  You know.  Ginny…” Harry trailed off with an asymmetrical shrug.

Ron sighed.  “I’m really sorry about all of that.  I shouldn’t have pushed either of you.  Ginny gave me hell for it, too, you know.  Borrowed a bat from Peakes at one of the Quidditch practices I was at and shot a bludger straight at me.  Missed by inches.  She swore it was an accident, but then gave me a lecture about not putting pressure on either of you, saying it was the last thing you needed right now.  Told me to get my nose out of her love life, that she was doing just fine on her own, or there’d be more bludgers in my future.” He shuddered. "She’s a bit scary when she’s angry, actually.  Don’t tell her I said that,” he added, glancing around, as if she were lurking in the corner with another bludger.  Harry nearly laughed at the thought.  Hermione nudged Ron, and he veered back to his original point.  “Anyway, sorry, mate.  I just want you to be happy.”  There was a pause, and Ron wrinkled his brow. “Although, does it have to be Malfoy?”

“Yeah, I think it does,” Harry admitted ruefully, imagining his life would probably be a lot less complicated were that not that case.  Now that he had confessed his feelings for Malfoy, though, he could hardly forget they existed, and as if to emphasize that point, the twisting sensation in his stomach was renewed as he remembered fleeting grasps of hands and entwined limbs and hot wet lips.  _Lips I’ll likely never kiss again_ , he thought, turning his desire into dread.

“Harry?” Hermione asked gently.  “Is there something else bothering you?”

Harry hesitated, not sure how to express his grief over Draco’s lack of interest without sounding pathetic.  “It’s just –” he paused and took a deep breath.  “I’m pretty sure he doesn’t exactly feel the same, you know?  In fact, I’m pretty sure I fucked it all up.”

Hermione wrinkled her brow.  “What makes you say that?”

“Well, he sort of stopped the kiss.”  Harry could feel a faint blush rising along his cheeks.  “And now he won’t even look at me,” he finished glumly.  Ron scowled, and Harry wasn’t sure if it was due to deep-seated loyalty or just the idea of Draco Malfoy doing something to upset Harry, but Harry hastened to calm him.  “He was nice about it,” he defended.  “He said it wasn’t necessarily the best thing to be doing when I was upset.”

“That’s not unreasonable, Harry,” Hermione admitted, wincing a little.

Harry sighed lightly.  “I know.  But still, why won’t he look at me now?”  He directed the question to Hermione, feeling all his desperation pour into those words, not wanting to consider how childish it sounded.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said, grabbing his hand for a second, her face dripping with pity that made Harry both frustrated and thankful for his friend.  “Maybe he’s just embarrassed,” she suggested.

Ron nodded emphatically.  “Yeah.  When I first started, you know,” he glanced around awkwardly, lowering his voice as if he were about to admit a shameful secret, “ _wooing_ Hermione, sometimes we’d hold hands or brush up against each other, and then we’d both be awkward about it after.”  Hermione threw him a look of insulted disbelief, and he hastened to add, “All right, fine. _I_  was awkward about it.  I’m pretty sure I sent her mixed signals.”

“I think one time you patted me on the head and then called me ‘mate,’” Hermione said dryly, smirking at the memory.

Ron winced and gave her hand a squeeze.  “So maybe it’s like that, yeah?  Just embarrassment, like Hermione said.”  He nodded again, looking pleased that he had contributed advice.

“You’ll never know unless you ask him, Harry.  Otherwise, you’ll just drive yourself crazy wondering about it all,” Hermione added, and Harry grimaced.  Even the idea of such a conversation made his palms sweat.

“I’d like to reiterate how strange all of this is,” Ron supplied. At a sharp jab from Hermione, he hastened to add, “But, I, er, support you entirely.”

Harry chuckled.  “Sorry, mate.  If I could, I wouldn’t have chosen falling in love with Draco Malfoy.”  Both Ron and Hermione turned and looked at Harry, Hermione gasping in a sharp breath.  “What?”

There was a brief silence, followed by Hermione raising an eyebrow and inquiring, “Love?”

Harry’s face flushed hotly.  He hadn’t realized he’d verbalized the idea that had been causing him equal amounts of bliss and grief over the past week.  “Er.  Well. I don’t know.  Maybe a little.”  He scrubbed at the back of his head, glancing away.  Looking very hard as if she were trying not to laugh, Hermione reached a hand up to close Ron’s mouth, which had fallen open.  Harry searched his head for a change of subject.

“Speaking of, er, well, romance I suppose,” he stumbled, refusing to utter the “L” word again, “what about the two of you?”

Hermione cheeks grew rosy, much to Harry’s satisfaction, and Ron, having recovered from his most recent shock, raised his eyebrows and asked, “What do you mean, what about us?”

Harry shrugged his shoulders, grinning.  “I was just surprised to hear you actually acknowledge your relationship in front of me today.  I was under the impression that you were trying to keep it something of a secret.  Well, from me, at least,” he added, frowning.

Hermione exchanged a worried glance with Ron.  “You noticed that?” Ron asked with a guilty expression.

Harry gaped at them.  How thick did they think he was?  “Well, yeah.  What kind of friend do you think I am?” he asked, repeating Ron’s own words back to him and receiving a sheepish grin in return.

“We weren’t trying to hide it from you, Harry.  Honestly,” Hermione assured him.  “We just thought that you were dealing with enough right now without worrying about extra stuff, like friendship dynamics.”

“We didn’t want you to feel like a third wheel, mate.”

Harry shook his head and smiled.  “I don’t.  I won’t.  As long as you don’t get gross,” he paused, wrinkling his nose and blinking away images of Lavender and her Won-Won writhing like a pair of eels, “and as long as you still make some time for the three of us to hang out, then we’re good.  You don’t need to feel like you have to hide it from me,” he chastised lightly.  “As it turns out, I think you’re fairly perfect for each other.”  They shared a brief look, both faintly blushing.  Ron took Hermione’s hand again, and Harry looked away, smiling with satisfaction but letting them have their moment together.

“Anyway,” Harry added, ready to be done with this exhausting conversation, “let’s get out of here, shall we?  As pleasant as the Charms classroom is, I think I’ve seen enough of it for one day.”

Hermione smiled and nodded, snatching up her satchel once more.  “Come on.  Let’s go back to the common room today.  I think we’ve earned a bit of a break.”

“Hmm,” Ron hummed, a glint in his eye.  “It  _is_  an awfully nice day out.”  Harry grinned back.  “Quidditch?”

Hermione rolled her eyes.  “I suppose I could read by the Quidditch pitch as well as anywhere else.”

Ron dipped his head and kissed her on the forehead, “You’re brilliant!” he told her emphatically.  Hermione flushed again, and threw Harry a quick, concerned look, but Harry merely grinned back, pleased to see them happy. He wedged the idea of Draco spurning his feelings deeply to the back of his brain, thinking that an afternoon of flying was exactly the sort of distraction he needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all won't be too disappointed that there's no resolution yet. Harry needed to do some angsting first and be reminded that his friends are incredible. The next chapter, which I promise is entirely Draco/Harry (and maybe a couple house elves), has already been written, although rather poorly, and after some *extensive* editing, it will be posted. : )


	12. Boiling Over

Draco shivered. He drew his cloak tighter, a shield against the biting wind, and exhaled a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. For not the first time tonight, he considered taking refuge from frigid elements and probable humiliation by the lake. Whether Harry was waiting for him or not, this trek promised emotional turmoil that could be avoided by simply retreating and seeking solace in warm bedsheets and pillows.

Weeks of surprisingly personal lakeside chats had familiarized Draco with Harry’s propensity to divulge every thought that crossed his mind. Despite finding the tendency equal parts alarming and amusing, Draco still hadn’t been able to determine why Harry’s analogous physical impulses had taken him by surprise the previous night, no matter how long he raked over the events. And he felt as if he’d done nothing _but_ rake over the events. Harry had kissed him. He’d cried in his sleep, he’d threatened Draco with his wand, and then he’d kissed him, all within the span of ten minutes. As he’d made his way towards the lake last night, none of those outcomes had struck him as particularly likely, and yet, they had all occurred. So now, as he hazarded a similar walk across the lawn, he felt completely panicked about what lay in store for him upon arrival.

It wasn’t as if the kiss had been unwelcome, but whether he examined it straight on, tilted sideways, or flipped upside down, Draco came to the same conclusion: Harry had responded rashly to a stressful situation, and therefore Draco couldn’t presume that he had meant it. To further validate this theory, every time he closed his eyes, he saw flashes of Harry’s gritted jaw, stiff posture, and regret-laden eyes, feeling as though they were teaming up to tacitly renege each kiss and punch a lattice of holes through his chest. After Harry’s utterance of remorse the previous night, Draco felt sure he was marching towards his own indictment, fully expecting Harry to rattle off a list of recent misdemeanors and past felonies that precluded them from being friends. It was as if pressing his lips to Draco’s had finally alerted him to the truth of the matter – that the Chosen One should not be messing around with Death Eaters, ex or not.

To the detriment of anything else, he had spent the day obsessively mulling over every possible resolution to the events of the previous night. He’d nearly fallen asleep in Arithmancy, and only managed consciousness during Transfiguration because Pansy had taken far too much pleasure in zapping him with stinging hexes each time his eyes flagged. The two cups of coffee at lunch had transformed Draco’s torpid despair into jittery panic, and he spent the entirety of Charms avoiding Harry’s gaze and agonizing over the meaning of Harry’s hastily muttered apology at dawn. 

It didn’t help that Harry had been staring at him all day with an intensity that irreparably muddled his sense of rationality. The glances had varied from troubled to longing, often doubled with a sort of baffled exhaustion that Draco himself was becoming quite well acquainted with. The frequency of his glances didn’t flag throughout the day, though, and Draco found himself hoping that whatever had been transpiring between Potter and himself was mendable, at least in some form. It was for this reason that he found himself trudging from the castle to the lakefront at an ungodly hour on the coldest night of the semester, full with an impermissible amount of hope and just enough doubt to make the whole ordeal terrifying. There were several moments during the journey that his fear of being rejected on a lone beach sent his feet stuttering to a standstill. Each time, he would pluck up his measly courage, grit his teeth, and resume his progress towards the shore. Putting this off wouldn’t help anything.

As he drew closer to the lake, he could make out the shadowy edges of a figure strutting parallel to the water’s edge. It darted behind the copse of trees and out of sight, reappearing a moment later and retracing its steps along the shore. Now close enough to discern the figure’s male form and distinctive ridges of messy hair, Draco felt a rush of fondness for its disheveled owner, followed by a numbing apprehension that such feelings might no longer be allowed.

Harry paused in his pacing, further rumpling his hair with a wayward hand, and bent down to dig in the stones at his feet. Standing up once more, he swept his arm in a neat arc, skipping a stone across the water, leaning slightly into the motion. Draco hesitated, watching the stone’s reticent navigation of choppy waves. Then, taking a deep breath, he forced his legs to carry him around the trees.

Hearing the patter of footfalls across pebbles, Harry spun around. “You’re here,” he intoned with surprise, eyes flickering hopefully.

Draco’s own flutter of relief was tempered by the cloud of confusion that surrounded everything relating to Harry these days. It overwhelmed him, fortuitously stifling every heinous, embarrassing, sappy confession from spilling out of his mouth. He crouched, agitating the rocks by his feet, and when he stood, he clutched a cold stone in his gloved hand like a lifeline. What did Harry want from him? A defensive edge crept up his neck. 

Extracting his wand from his pocket, he pitched the stone towards the lake, poorly executing the maneuver Harry had shown him the previous week but salvaging the attempt with quick charms work. They watched as his stone hopped neatly across the water and out of sight, skimming over white caps with ease. Finally, stowing his wand, he faced Harry, one corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk without his consent. “Of course I am. I feel as though I live at this shore these days. Did you think a bit of cold would keep me away?”

Harry’s face, which had been wrinkled in anxiety, relaxed, a cautious smile forming in its place. “Of course not,” he joked. “You’re Draco bloody Malfoy, prepared for anything.”

“Certainly better prepared than you. Do you ever dress appropriately, Potter?” He raised an eyebrow, heart thudding inside his chest, lamenting that every time he opened his mouth near Harry, he spouted antagonistic bullshit. His eyes strayed to Harry’s neck, and his heart sank. It was bare.

Harry frowned and scrubbed at the back of his neck. “It’s Harry. And probably not.” Brow furrowed, he tucked his cold-reddened hand into his sleeve. “Although, in my defense, I wasn’t expecting it to be so bloody cold,” he grumbled.

“Yes, how shocking – cold weather in November,” Draco drawled, provoking a glare in return. He pulled his wand from his pocket and conjured a glass prism. With another flick of his wrist, a bouquet of vibrant, blue flames bloomed within. “Here,” he said, offering the container to Harry.

Lips tugging into a smile, Harry took hold with both hands. “Thanks.” His shoulders relaxed as he spread his fingers wide over the glass, relishing the warmth. “Hermione uses this spell all the time, but I always seem to forget about it at times like these.” His expression softened further, his eyes unguarded as he held Draco’s gaze over the flames.

Draco returned the smile, feeling exceptionally fond of Harry – for his acceptance of the gifted flames, for his occasional ineptitude, and for his unreservedness in admitting it. “I know she does. Where do you think I got the idea?”

Removing one leather glove and tucking it under his arm, Draco placed his bare hand on top of the container, watching the blue flames dance inside. “I intended the edges to be rounded,” he admitted quietly.

Adjusting his hold on the box, Harry dug his wand from his pocket and swept it over the glass. Its hard edges melted away, transforming the structure from prismatic to bean shaped. He cocked his head, appraising his work, and placed his hand back on the now asymmetrical container. “Well, it’s not the most beautiful thing I’ve ever transfigured,” he shrugged, his smile apologetic, “but it’ll keep us warm.”

“You know what else could do that?” Draco smirked. “A pair of gloves. Or purchasing a set of robes that aren’t threadbare.” _Or wearing the scarf you’ve stolen from me_ , he added in his head, feeling somewhat disgruntled.

Harry examined his own robes critically, as if seeing the fraying hems for the first time. “It’s not that bad, is it?” He looked at Draco uncertainly, the underside of this face illuminated ethereally in blue light. Ignoring the bubble of warmth in his chest, Draco merely raised his eyebrows. Harry scowled. “Well, it’s not like staying warm has much to do with me dressing like a beggar, or whatever it was you said,” he muttered. “I can manage both.”

Draco smiled a little. Is that truly what he’d heard? “I didn’t say you’re dressed like a beggar.”

Harry made a small, guttural noise of dissent, emanating from the back of his throat and sending a wave of desire through Draco. “That’s what you meant, though,” he reasoned.

“That’s rather insulting to beggars, is it not?” Draco jibed back, still cautious. They were playing the same game they had played all those weeks ago, locating the boundary of friendship and walking its line as if a wobble in either direction would upset the delicate balance.

Harry shot him a grumpy smile. “I’ll have you know that nobody else takes issue with my, erm, style decisions.”

Charitably ignoring Harry’s use of the word “style,” Draco snorted. “I may be the only person actually voicing any criticisms, but I assure you others think it. They’re all just too afraid that the Boy Who Lived won’t like them anymore if they mock him.” He smirked at Harry’s twisted expression, which was part grimace, part smile.

“And I take it you’re not fussed about losing my good opinion?” Harry teased.

“I can’t fear losing what I don’t have,” he stated, flushing faintly. In a Potter-esque impulse, he’d been honest and admitted what he currently feared most – that Harry didn’t want him. What a ridiculous thing to fear after everything that had occurred over the last seven years, let alone the last few weeks.

Looking briefly as though he’d been hit by several stunning spells, Harry relinquished the bean-shaped glass to Draco and turned towards the lake. “I think I’m too tired for this conversation,” he mumbled.

What did _that_ mean? Trying to hide the panic creeping up his esophagus, Draco narrowed his eyes and set his jaw. “You can tell me when I’m unwanted, Potter,” he replied, slight sneer shaking his voice.

Harry turned to gape at him. “That’s not what I meant, Draco.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “How did we get here?” he muttered to himself, barely audible. “Just give me a second to explain.” Draco glared at him, feeling as if he were moments away from having his fears confirmed. “Please?” Harry pleaded, green eyes wide and hopeful, and Draco’s obstinacy crumbled.

He felt confused and dizzy and as though little of what had occurred in the last two days had made any sense. “What exactly did you mean, then, Potter?”

“It’s Harry. And I meant that if we’re to continue this conversation, a decision I fully support,” he emphasized, locking eyes with Draco, “I think we need coffee.”

Lips pursed, Draco stared at Harry, who raised his eyebrows in question. Apparently taking the lack of response as assent, he took a few steps backward, then spun on his heels and began striding across Hogwarts’ lawn with purpose.

“I don’t want coffee,” Draco called after him, still reeling from Harry’s emotional turnabout. Harry continued without pause. “Where in the good name of Merlin are you going, Potter?”

“Harry,” he corrected over his shoulder. “Tea then!” he added, by way of explanation.

Vanishing the flaming glass, Draco rolled his eyes and trotted to catch up with Harry. The look of determination on his face was at odds with his recent declaration of fatigue. “I’m not convinced caffeine is the answer to your sleeping problems,” Draco offered.

Harry laughed sharply, and Draco threw him an alarmed look, concerned that Harry was losing the plot. “Have you quit smoking then?” he inquired pointedly.

Draco tore a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and lit one, pulling a deep drag, even though the five-minute jaunt to the castle was too brief to smoke a full cigarette. Harry smirked smugly, and Draco retaliated by blowing spires of smoke directly at him. Sighing, he fanned his face.

They lapsed into silence, tense and persistent, as they moved across the grounds. The vibrating anxiety in his chest threatened to spill over with each step, so in an effort to distract himself, he focused on the sensation of smoke ghosting against his lips and nose as he exhaled, and the way the slow, rhythmic rushes of air dissolved the silence, demanding calmness and order. 

Finally, as the main entrance loomed into view, Harry cast a sheepish glance at Draco. “Er. I suppose I should mention that I’m not exactly welcome in the kitchens anymore.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “And why is that, Potter? Have you been terrorizing the house elves?” Harry grimaced. “I would have thought they’d love you, seeing as you’re Harry Potter, champion of wizards and elves alike. Haven’t you been setting them free since you were twelve?”

Harry glared at him. “It’s Harry,” he growled, “and Dobby deserved to be freed.”

“I never intended to indicate otherwise,” Draco clarified, cursing himself for upsetting the balance again.

“Oh. Well.” Harry scrubbed at the back of his head again. “I’ve only freed two house elves, and one was accidental. It turns out that they don’t really like being freed. Except for Dobby. He was always a bit odd,” he added fondly. “But, yes, I did inadvertently antagonize the house elves by reorganizing their cupboards one night when I couldn’t sleep.”

Draco laughed. “How do you propose we go about this, then, _Harry_?” he asked, emphasizing the use of his given name.

Harry pulled a face. “They should all be out cleaning the castle at this time of night. But if not, I was hoping your presence would help.”

“Ah, I see. You’re using me,” he jibed. _He’s using me_ , Draco thought, heart sinking again, and he felt the walls creep back up.

Harry sighed. “If you want to see it like that,” he replied, lowering his voice as they entered the castle. Draco took one last drag and regrettably vanished the largely unsmoked cigarette. “Hold up a minute.” Harry tugged him into an alcove, extracting a ragged piece of parchment from his robes.

“What on earth are you doing?” Draco asked.

Tapping his wand against the parchment, Harry muttered, “I solemnly swear that I’m up to no good,” and black lines blossomed over the grubby page, crisscrossing and merging together to form a perfect albeit piecemeal reflection of the castle. Draco peered closer to study tiny figures gliding around the corridors. “We’re safe,” Harry told him. Tapping the parchment once more and muttering, “Mischief managed,” he refolded and tucked the map into his pocket. He yanked Draco’s arm, pulling them out of the alcove and resuming their march towards the kitchens.

Draco was still flabbergasted. “That was –” he glanced at Harry’s amused expression. “That was a map of the school.”

“Well spotted.” Harry grinned cheekily at him.

“Bloody Gryffindors,” Draco muttered under his breath.

Harry chuckled. “Yes, well, this bloody Gryffindor is keeping us both from being dragged off to McGonagall’s office by Filch. I don’t know about you, but I don’t particularly fancy that tonight.”

“Believe it or not, I’d prefer not to spend my remaining year at Hogwarts in detention,” Draco replied dryly. “But I still want to know more about this Gryffindor Cheater’s Map.” Only the tiniest hint of petulance suffused his tone.

Harry laughed. “Cheater’s map? There’s nothing remotely cheater-y about it.”

“Of course there is. It allows you access to knowledge you shouldn’t have.”

“Someone recently told me that isn’t cheating – it’s just using all the tools at my disposal.” Draco recognized his own statement from a week prior and bit down on a smile of his own.

Reaching the gaudy painting which guarded the kitchens’ entrance, Harry extended his hand and gently tickled the pear, causing it to wheeze, squirm, and eventually admit them to the kitchens. Harry clambered through the opening with Draco trailing just behind, eyes scanning the room for the usual throng of house elves. On each of Draco’s prior visits, the elves had bombarded him immediately, knackering themselves in enthusiastic attempts to attend to him. Shockingly, there was not an elf in sight, and discovering the same thing, Harry visibly relaxed.

The room was spotless; every worktop and table was clear and clean, the sinks and basins empty and dried, and the pots and pans shining where they sat on shelves or hung delicately from ceiling hooks. Harry removed his cloak and threw it onto the countertop. Stowing his hat, gloves, and scarf in his cloak pocket, Draco followed suit, eying Harry’s crumpled cloak disdainfully and carefully folding his own before placing it next to Harry’s. 

Harry ventured further into the kitchens, opening and closing cupboards at random until finding one which housed tea and tossing the packet of loose-leaf English Breakfast over his shoulder at Draco’s head. Draco barely caught the packet in the tips of his fingers, feeling somewhat disgruntled that Harry had taken him by surprise. And suddenly, as Harry puttered around the kitchens, muttering _aguamenti_ at an empty tea kettle and carrying it towards the fire, it was too much for Draco. He couldn’t stand the tension or the uncertainty for a second longer.

“What is it you want from me, Potter?”

Harry froze, the kettle sloshing water onto the floor. “Harry,” he corrected quietly. “And what do you mean?” He swallowed hard, and Draco drew strength from this.

“Is this how it’s going to be now? Five steps backward? I get it. You regret last night. That’s fine. I don’t bloody need any of that. We can go back to how things were before.” Harry gaped at him, stunned. Draco sucked in a deep breath, nostrils flaring in frustration. “Or fine. We can stop that, too. I realize how much of a hardship it must be to pretend friendship with a Death Eater. I’m sure Weasley and Granger can distract you just as well. Wake you up if need be.” He lost steam, feeling the hybrid of defiant challenge and pout take shape on his face.

Harry continued to stare at Draco as if he’d just experienced blunt-force trauma. “I’ll just leave then, shall I?” Draco choked out, spinning on heel and feeling mortified.

Harry leapt forward, grabbing Draco’s arm and forcing him to whirl around. Draco’s eyes flashed with anger. “What do you mean?” Harry asked. “You don’t regret what happened last night?” Draco studied Harry’s face, deciding he looked hopeful. He thought Draco regretted taking part in the kiss. Why would he possibly think that?

“I know _you_ do,” Draco returned, sidestepping Harry’s question. _Coward_ , he berated himself silently. Harry tilted his head, looking confused and hurt. “You admitted as much last night,” Draco clarified, indignant.

“I –” Harry stopped, his brow furrowing. “What?” He shook his head. “I don’t regret a damn thing,” he declared.

Examining his feet, Harry rubbed at his forehead; when he lifted his head and met Draco’s gaze, his eyes were heavy with exasperation. Before Draco could consider his actions, he strode across the kitchen, crashing into Harry and snaking one arm around his lower back, the other behind his neck, drawing their bodies flush. Then his lips were on Harry’s, hard and rough, and he wasn’t sure whether he’d brought them together or if it was a joint effort, but it didn’t matter because he was breathing Harry in, and it was orchards and forests and winter days huddled around fires, and he never wanted it to end.

Harry yielded to the kiss, his mouth softening against Draco’s. He dragged in a ragged breath, grasping Draco’s shoulder with one hand, his fingertips curling with enough pressure to leave bruises, and holding the kettle away from their entwined bodies with the other. He made a small, low sound, his tongue flicking out cautiously to tease Draco’s bottom lip. Sliding his tongue against Harry’s, Draco chased it eagerly into his mouth and deepened the kiss, hard enough to coax out a groan that sent vibrations across Draco’s lips and spiraling downward. Harry shifted his hips so that one of his legs nudged between Draco’s. His whole body shuddered at the pressure.

Harry tore his mouth away from Draco, breathing hard. “You are hard work, you know that?”

Draco smirked faintly. “So are you, _Potter_.” Lips quirking upward at the jibe, Harry’s eyes darkened with desire as they bore into Draco’s, and he drove back against Harry, sending them both careening towards one of the preparation tables. They slammed into its edge hard enough it ought to have hurt, but far from protesting, Harry issued a low growl and grappled with Draco’s hair, dragging his face down to thrust their tongues together once more. Draco’s hands skirted Harry’s ribs, gripping tentatively, fingers shaking, then continued downward, brushing hipbones and feeling ridges of belt loops and pockets beneath his robes. Tugging on the fabric, he pressed their hips together, the hard length of Harry grinding against Draco. _Too many layers_ , he thought, his cock straining against the fabric of the trousers beneath his robes. 

Harry groaned, throwing both arms around Draco’s neck and narrowly avoiding bashing his head with the kettle. Draco heard the slosh of water, but didn’t register its implications until seconds later when a cold wetness seeped through his robes and sweater alike. His eyes snapped open. He squealed in distress, jolting away from Harry, praying the ugly noise hadn’t been as high-pitched as it had sounded to his own ears. Sparing a quick glare for the apology Harry issued between breathless laughs, he seized the kettle and cast it aside onto the table. “You are a menace,” he informed Harry, attempting severity but lips twitching with the effort of not laughing. Harry stared up at Draco, his grin so wide and beautiful that the façade cracked and Draco smiled back.

“C’m’ere,” Harry whispered, pulling him back down, this time kissing him gently, his lips soft, and inviting, and his fingers, now free of the wretched kettle, tangling in his hair and fluttering down to hover at his jawline. Unsurprisingly, Harry’s kisses were everything Harry himself was: manic, messy, fierce, reckless, gentle, warm, good – Draco was lost the second Harry’s mouth met his own. He melted into the touch, hands falling to Harry’s sides and twisting into black fabric. He fisted handfuls of the shabby material, balling it up so he could reach what was underneath, and Harry, pulling away with a small whine of approval, yanked the robes over his head and abandoned them on the floor. In a fumbling series of grabs, yanks, and shrugs, they managed to extract Draco from his robes as well, discarding them in a heap atop Harry’s. _What are we doing?_ Draco wondered, slightly panicked, but he was quickly distracted by teeth grazing his throat and fingers creeping into his hair.

Pulling away, Harry hoisted himself onto the surface of the table and scrambled backward. Propped on his elbows, breath erratic, and sprawled in an offensively orange Chudley Cannon’s t-shirt and a pair of worn jeans, he gazed at Draco, eyes questioning and unsure, as if worried he might be rejected. Draco climbed up after him, crawling over legs and straddling his hips. Meeting Harry’s green eyes, he reveled in the spark of relief chased by a slow, smoldering fire. He bowed his head, joining their mouths in a sloppy, rushed, open-mouthed kiss, and Harry wrapped his arms tightly around Draco, sliding both hands down the curve of his spine to grab his arse and drag their hips together. He could feel Harry against him now, hard and hot through his trousers, and he shifted so their cocks brushed together. Harry groaned and rolled his hips, eliciting unintentional gasps from both of them at the rough, ruinous friction.

“Fuck,” Draco breathed, stretching his head to the side as Harry’s wet mouth found his neck once more, sucking, licking, and biting marks that Draco knew he’d regret tomorrow. Kicking his leg downward, he arched into Harry, feeling a breath hitch against his jaw in response. A metallic _ping_ reverberated around the room as his foot connected with the abandoned kettle, sending it over the edge of the table, undoubtedly spilling its remaining water as it tumbled.

_Crack._

“Oh, fuck,” he exclaimed louder, pulling back from Harry and searching for the source of the Apparition. He found himself staring into two huge, table-level eyes. The house elf they belonged to was holding the troublesome kettle, which she had apparently caught mid-air, and gazing up at them, extremely distressed.

“Excuse me, sirs,” she began, her voice high-pitched and timid, “the other elves is sending Winky to tell Harry Potter and his friend that they mustn’t be using the kitchens for such activities.” She blinked her enormous brown eyes towards the ground in embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry, Winky,” Harry uttered, looking horrified as he clambered off the table, grabbing Draco’s hand and pulling him to the floor as well. Draco smoothed his disheveled hair and adjusted his sweater, realizing belatedly that making himself decent was beyond hope given the obvious erection straining at the front of his trousers. His cheeks flooded with warmth.

Harry’s apology seemed to bolster some confidence in the elf, because she nodded once and watched boldly as Harry and Draco donned their robes. “If sirs is needing anything to be eating, Winky and the others can be providing some foods for sirs to be taking, but we is needing you to leave the kitchens now.”

While Harry declined her offers of food, Draco scanned the kitchens, noticing several other pairs of big eyes peering out at them behind shelves and table legs. They gathered their discarded cloaks and, amidst several more muttered, embarrassed apologies from Harry, Winky managed to shoo them out of the kitchens, shutting the door behind them.

Harry collapsed against the portrait as soon as it closed, letting out a huge breath. “Well, that was mortifying,” Draco said. “I don’t suppose my presence helped your case with the house elves after all.”

“No, I rather think you were part of the problem this time.” Harry winced. “Sorry.”

“Are you going to apologize after every kiss?” Draco mocked, feeling a real moment of vulnerability.

Harry turned embarrassed eyes towards him. “No. I’m not sorry for either one.”

Feeling immediately lighter, Draco lips curved into a small smile. “Good. I’m not sorry either. I wasn’t ready for it to be over, to tell the truth,” he responded, barely concealing the desire in his voice.

Harry granted him a shy smile. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sat on this chapter for too long, and for that, I am very sorry. For some reason, I couldn't get the dynamics right for a while, and the kissing was awkward. I had a friend of mine read it and he thought it was "not my best," so I kept waiting, hoping it would miraculously get better. The miracle never occurred, but I did put a decent amount of work into rewriting and editing the last few days, and the result is this, which has been given the ringing endorsement of "it's okay now" from my friend. I hope you like it! I'm excited to move on - I wrote most of the dialogue for the next chapter while I was lamenting this one. Anyway, happy belated Valentine's day - here's some snogging to keep the spirit alive.


	13. Lumos

_Maybe it doesn’t have to be_ , he’d said. The words had dripped out of his mouth calmly, collectedly, and completely without his permission. At least the suave, suggestive delivery had painted him capable of simultaneously mastering his brain and desires, even if poise and grace weren’t naturally in his repertoire. Rather, he’d always been the rush-in, fumble-through, bugger-things-up sort of bloke, and while that strategy generated more chaos than strictly necessary, the end result was often a damn sight better than when he tried for sophistication. And yet, as his eyes strayed towards Draco, his heart thundering against his chest, he caught himself thinking, _What I wouldn’t give for just a little fucking grace right now_.

He felt as though every part of his body was vibrating with anticipation. It should have been a relief, having Draco aware that Harry wanted him, but he could still feel the doubt, relentlessly gnawing at him, reminding him that Draco could still say no, could still call it off, and he’d be back where he started. And of course, Draco was standing silently, his eyes cool and bright and _not telling him a fucking thing_ about how his suggestion had been received.

After what felt like an eternity, Draco cleared his throat gently. “What do you propose?” he asked, and Harry couldn’t decide if he was trying to make his voice sultry or if that’s just how it had always sounded.

“Do you have any objections to going to either the Gryffindor or Slytherin dorms?” He breathed an inward sigh of relief that he hadn’t yet stumbled.

“Several,” Draco replied instantaneously, frowning slightly. “They include Blaise and Theo on my end and, at the very least, a Weasel and Longbottom on yours.”

“We’ll be very quiet,” Harry countered. “Silent even. Use as many bloody silencing charms as you want.”

“You do understand that when done properly, one silencing charm is equally as effective as fifty, yes?”

Harry sighed. “Yes, I’m not an idiot. Don’t,” he warned as Draco smirked and opened his mouth, likely to insinuate that _as a matter of fact, yes, Harry, you are an idiot_. “I’m just trying to make the point that we can manage to be stealthy.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Can we? I was under the impression that you didn’t think much of my sleuthing abilities. I believe your exact words were, ‘You clomp around like a bloody giant,’” he drawled. “Very complimentary.” Harry’s mouth twisted into a smile. He _had_ said that, albeit over a month ago. Apparently, it had made an impression on Draco. “And no offense, Harry, but I’m disinclined to believe that anyone has ever accused you of being stealthy.”

Harry’s heart sank. “So, what now? We just say ‘fuck it’ and go our separate ways?”

Draco considered this for a moment, his fingertips teasing the hems of his sleeves. “No. Let’s try it. But we’re going to Slytherin,” he declared. He pushed off from the wall and started down the corridor.

Harry shook his head. “All right,” he said mainly to himself, hurrying after Draco. Upon catching up with him, he teased, “Remember when I said you were hard work?”

Draco glanced at Harry, his eyes dancing with humor. “Perhaps now is a good time to practice being silent,” he remarked. Harry flicked him on the wrist. Hard.

After a few paces, Harry nudged Draco into a pool of light spilling from a sconce-cradled torch. “Wait one second,” he said, watching the glow from the flames wavering across Draco’s cheekbones. “I want to check the map again.” He extracted the Marauder’s Map, aware of eyes peering over his shoulder and puffs of warm breath drifting against his neck as he searched for the names that could cause them trouble. McGonagall was in her rooms, which were apparently separate from the Headmistress’ office, and given the hour, she was likely fast asleep. True to form, Filch was tottering after Mrs. Norris on sixth floor, trying to sniff out troublemakers. Peeves was bouncing around an empty classroom on fourth floor, undoubtedly wreaking some sort of unknown havoc. But most significantly, there was not a soul between their current location and the Slytherin Dungeons.

Its entrance was indicated on the map, notched into the wall partway along the dungeons main corridor. Beyond the door, however, the Marauders had merely sketched a large, rectangular room, indicating none of the detail that other parts of the map flaunted, failing to separate the common room from the dormitories, loos, and fireplaces. Harry felt a flicker of pride, realizing that his father, whom he had always deemed to be immeasurably more talented than himself, had never wormed his way into the Slytherin Dungeons, a feat that Harry had managed. He wiped and refolded the map, the complicated grooves behaving under his practiced fingertips until the whole mess of creases and parchment had collapsed into a pocket-sized scrap. “Nothing to worry about,” he informed Draco, whose chin was now resting on Harry’s shoulder, his nose wrinkled in consternation. “Shall we continue?”

“Does your Gryffindor Cheaters Map have the Slytherin Dungeons on it?” Draco asked warily, lifting his head and crossing his arms over his chest.

“It does.” Harry paused, considering his next words with a sly grin. “But I wouldn’t need the map for that anyway. I know where I’m going.”

Draco raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Bollocks.”

Harry laughed. “It’s not, actually. I’ve been inside your common room. In fact, _you_ let me in.”

Draco stared at Harry for a moment, eyes narrowed. “You’re fucking with me,” he stated baldly, then blushed.

Harry lifted his eyebrows. “I’m not.” _But I want to_ , he added silently. Loosing a small nervous chuckle, he felt a blush rise on his on cheeks as well. “I can prove it, if you’d like,” he goaded, taking off in the direction of the staircase that led to the lowest level of the castle. “The common room is one floor below us behind a door that’s pretending to be a wall.”

“Knowing the general location of our common room doesn’t prove that you’ve been inside,” Draco informed Harry haughtily as he caught up to him.

“Okay, you need more evidence?” Harry grinned cheekily. “Let’s see…. I was there during our second year. We sat in leather arm chairs and had a nice chat,” he clarified, chuckling at Draco’s horrified expression. “There’s an enormous stone fireplace on one side and the back wall is mainly glass. It looks out under the lake and casts a green glow on everything. I couldn’t decide if it was nice or creepy at the time.” Draco glared at Harry, his face oscillating between shock and irritation. Harry laughed again. “I’ve stunned you into silence. I didn’t think it was possible.”

Draco scowled. “Shut it, Potter.” Harry grinned broadly.

As they meandered down the corridor in silence, Draco darted his eyes towards Harry every few seconds, suspicion and dismay flickering across his face in turn. “Explain to me in which strange alternate reality I welcomed you to the Slytherin Common Room?” he finally asked, sounding strangled.

“It was Christmas. You remember we all stayed that year?” Draco nodded, his eyebrows furrowing. “You thought I was Goyle,” Harry continued softly. He felt uncomfortable mentioning one half of Draco’s best friend duo. Not one of their lakeside chats had broached the subject of Crabbe and Goyle. Harry had awoken in a cold sweat on too many nights, the memory of bellowing tendrils of Fiendfyre engulfing Crabbe coursing through his mind, and if it still disturbed Harry, he couldn’t imagine how it must affect Draco. Harry had read in the _Prophet_ that Goyle had been handed a small sentence in Azkaban, but like Draco, had not been expelled. He had wondered whether or not Goyle would return to Hogwarts, but Draco never discussed it, and Harry never asked.

Draco stiffened minutely, but, striving for nonchalance, he raised an eyebrow and cast a sideways glance at Harry. “And why would I have thought that?”

“Well, we sort of used Polyjuice,” Harry confessed sheepishly.

“We?”

Harry nodded. “Ron was there, too.”

Draco looked stricken. “Crabbe?” he asked, quiet and strained. Harry nodded again, biting the inside of his cheek, and Draco mulled this over for a moment. Then, looking up, he asked, “What did you do with them?”

Confused, Harry cocked his head, but after a second, he realized what Draco meant. “Sleeping draughts. We left them napping in a broom cupboard.”

“That was _you_?” Draco stopped walking abruptly and turned toward Harry. “That was real?” He shook his head. “They were confused for weeks after that. No one believed them when they claimed they had woken up naked in a supply cupboard. I was half convinced they’d gotten into the eggnog.”

Harry frowned. He hadn’t really thought about how the events of that day would have seemed to Crabbe and Goyle, or to their Slytherin dormmates. “They weren’t naked,” he amended, wrinkling his nose at the idea. Draco threw him a dirty look. “But, er, yeah, I suppose it wasn’t the most brilliant plan,” he added contritely. “It was the best we could come up with at the time, though.”

Draco shook his head, continuing down the corridor to the top of the stairwell. “So, you brewed Polyjuice Potion in second year?” he asked after a moment, his tone incredulous.

“Impressed?”

“Skeptical,” he retorted. “I’ve seen you in potions. In second year, you could barely brew a simple Hiccupping Solution. You expect me to believe that you and Weasley concocted Polyjuice without turning yourselves into Flobberworms or setting anything on fire?”

Harry scowled. “Okay, so Hermione may have done most of the actual brewing, but we helped with, you know, chopping and stirring and such.”

Draco smirked. “That sounds more like the second-year Potter I knew and hated,” he stated smugly. “Although,” he conceded after a moment, “I doubt I could have brewed Polyjuice Potion successfully in second year, either. I never had a chance, competing with Granger, did I?” he asked, rather forlorn.

“I don’t think anyone ever has,” Harry answered truthfully.

Draco made a small noncommittal noise. “You were so desperate to see the inside of the Slytherin Common Room that you spent a full moon cycle brewing a horrendously difficult potion and addled the already shaky minds of two teenage boys?” he asked imperiously.

“No. We were convinced you were the heir of Slytherin and we wanted proof,” Harry argued.

Draco laughed. “Of course you did.”

“Well, you didn’t do much to contradict the theory, strutting around and laughing about all the petrified Mudbloods,” Harry shot with more ire than he’d intended. Staring straight ahead, Draco’s smile dissolved. “Sorry,” Harry muttered, not quite understanding the contradictory feelings coursing through him.

“No, I –” Draco paused, swallowing thickly. “I owe a lot of people a lot of apologies they’ll never hear.” His voice was quiet and steady, but as he flicked his haunted eyes towards Harry, it was clear how difficult the admission had been.

“I suppose it’s your choice whether or not they hear them, isn’t it?” Harry replied gently, holding his gaze and hoping Draco understood that he’d never require an apology from him. Not now, not ever.

Draco exhaled a slow, audible breath. “I suppose.” Closing the gap between them, Harry took hold of Draco’s hand and squeezed gently, and Draco’s mouth quirked up at the corners. “Now hush up. We’re here. Which you apparently already know,” he muttered as Harry slowed to a stop. He squeezed back, cold and soft fingers against warm and rough, before letting go.

They had stopped in front of a section of stone wall that appeared much like the vast expanse to its left and right except for the clear trickle of water sluicing down its face in thin rivulets. It gave the impression that the wall was crying.

“ _Emendo_ ,” Draco muttered, and the wall melted away to reveal a stone door, which swung open of its own accord.

“So, it’s not _pure-blood_ anymore, then?” Harry asked.

Draco’s brow knitted. “Was that the password back then?” Harry nodded, and Draco sighed. “Yes, well, the wall’s been less haughty and more conciliatory these days.” Reaching for Harry’s hand once more, he laced their fingers. “Now shut up for real, Harry.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but mimed zipping his lips closed. Draco attempted to cast him a withering look with minimal success, and Harry grinned at the begrudging smile on his face before being pulled through the short corridor that led from the ornate stone opening and flared into the Slytherin Common Room.

Entering the common room in the middle of the night was a vastly different experience from his daytime visit six years prior. It was late enough that the fire and hanging glass lanterns had already been quenched by house elves; the only source of light was a dim, green glow, shimmering into the room from the semi-frosted glass panes that bordered the lake. In the near-dark, with chairs and tables silhouetted against the backdrop of the luminous water, the room was cold, remote, and every-so-slightly frightening. Harry may not have felt at home when he’d last visited, but the blazing fire and the soft, green-tinted light combined from the lake and the dangling glass bulbs had at least imbued the room with the semblance of comfort and warmth. 

Draco fingers jerked against Harry’s as he abruptly turned left, guiding him down a corridor that split off from the common room. The corridor featured the same stone walls which wrapped around the common room, capped at the end by a floor-to-ceiling glass panel that shed the familiar lake-green gleam throughout the length of the hallway. The light was just robust enough to highlight elaborately chiseled arches spanning archaic wooden doors, each etched with a number and letter in elegant script. Portraits of stodgy, old men hung between doors, most of which snoozed in their frames, walrus mustaches twitching in time with their snores. One portrait, a rotund, squat man wearing a high-necked lace collar and a feathered hat, _tsk_ ed loudly as they passed, but by the time Harry glanced back towards him, he’d resumed snoring.

Draco slowed to a stop in front of the last door, which was engraved with a large, decorative _8A_. To the left of the door, a portrait of a thin man with neat, slicked-back silver hair, bright blue eyes, and an arrogant glare studied them from within his frame. “It’s rather late to be just getting in, young Malfoy, is it not? Although you’ve never set much store by the rules, have you?” he sneered. “Delinquent!” Harry was immediately reminded of Snape. “Been out traipsing the castle, I suppose? You were always –”

But Harry didn’t find out what Draco had always been, because Draco extracted his wand and muttered “ _Silencio_ ,” jabbing with a little more force than necessary, and although the man continued to flap his mouth open and shut, he was no longer capable of disparaging Draco.

“Do your hallway portraits always verbally abuse you?” Harry asked in a whisper.

Draco shrugged. “Not all of them are unpleasant,” he whispered back pocketing his wand once more, “but that one,” he poked a finger in the direction of the wildly-gesticulating-but-indignantly-silent portrait, “hates everyone. Apparently, we all bring shame to the legacy of Slytherin. And he particularly hates me,” he added with a sad smile. Harry cocked his head, confused. “He’s my great-great-great Uncle, and I’ve brought exceptional dishonor to both the Slytherin house and the name of Malfoy.” Harry was beginning to understand the scope of what Draco had been coping with this year: a conglomeration of bullying, familial expectations, and the weight of past mistakes. It was a miracle he hadn’t folded in on himself. Draco stared into Harry’s eyes for a long moment, then raised a finger to his lips, motioning for silence. Harry nodded back.

Wrapping long fingers around the knob, Draco twisted slowly, soundlessly pushing the door ajar. He slipped through the gap, creating just enough space for Harry to squeeze through sideways, then closed the door behind them. Although it was dark, it was brighter than the Gryffindor dorms at night, as the entire back wall was composed of the same frosted glass found throughout the Slytherin Dungeons. Its green light seeped through the panes and dimly illuminated the five four-poster beds pressed up against it, the two furthest away with deep green hangings drawn. Wrapping a hand around Harry’s wrist, Draco dragged him to the bed closest to the door, dropped his cloak in a heap on the floor, and climbed atop on his knees. He looked back at Harry, eyes wide, as if to indicate, _you too, you idiot_. 

Copying Draco, he discarded his cloak and clambered onto the mattress, perched upright on his knees. Draco yanked the hangings closed around them. Surrounded by fabric and awash in shadowy green glow, the silence felt like a heavy chain wrapped around them. Harry opened his mouth, to reassure Draco, to lighten the mood, anything to break the oppressive silence, but before he could make a sound, Draco clamped a hand over his mouth, bringing with it the smell of the outdoors, the faint scent of cigarettes, and something uniquely Draco, light and fresh and probably expensive. He extracted his wand and cast what Harry recognized as silencing and privacy charms around the bed hangings.

He removed his hand and sat back on his heels, looking sheepish. “Sorry.”

Harry shook his head, sitting down as well. “No. Good thinking.”

They studied each other tentatively in the dim light. As the ghostly green shadows scattered across Draco’s face, the inches between them became a chasm, and Harry couldn’t decide whether the better option was to leap across and kiss him senseless or to escape. In the kitchens, their kisses had been sudden. There had been no time for overthinking, and in the wonderful stupidity of passion, they’d been completely sure of themselves. But now, the walk to the Slytherin Dungeons had offered plenty of time for speculation and worry, inviting awkwardness and hesitation where there was none before. 

As was wont to happen around Draco, a heavy fog flooded his brain, but when he peered at his lap to clear his thoughts, picking absently at a gash in his robes, the motion was halted by cool fingers, hooking into the crevices of his hand and squeezing lightly. When he lifted his head, the bright, grey gaze was tearing into him, carrying the kind of intensity that choked him and fucked with his head.

Over the last 48 hours, Harry had discovered that Draco kissed the way he spoke: sharp, teasing, and refined, his tongue chasing after teeth with small, gentle apologies. So when Draco tugged at his hand, rising on his knees to meet him in the middle of the bed, Harry expected this kiss to be the same. But it wasn’t. Every part was soft, sweet, and timid, from the brief pause, his eyes wide and questioning, to the sweep of his hand, cupping Harry’s cheek before he pressed their lips together. Harry had just enough time to recognize that Draco had defied expectations right from the beginning before he slid his hand around the back of Harry’s neck to pull him in deeper, spiking Harry’s blood and banishing every rational thought from his brain.

Needing to get _close-close-closerstill_ , Harry staggered into Draco. He twined his arms around Draco’s back, tracing the notches of his spine, dragging him in until they were flush from lips to thighs. _There’s not enough of his skin on mine_ , he growled to himself. Grasping fistfuls of the robes which obscured Draco’s legs, Harry yanked upward, only to find that the material didn’t want to budge. He extracted his mouth from Draco’s, examining the stubborn fabric with his kiss-hazy brain, and Draco choked out a noise somewhere between a chuckle and a groan, shifting his weight and tugging at the robes he was kneeling on. Amidst clumsy yanking and lifting of limbs, they managed to fling Draco’s robes to the floor.

“Never should have put these back on,” Draco grumbled, starting in on Harry’s robes. Brows knitted, his fingers swam in the fabric, fumbling impatiently, and it was too much for Harry; a short giggle bubbled up from his chest and burst forth. Relinquishing the bunched-up fabric, Draco fixed him with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. _Kill me now_ , Harry thought, his face glowing red, and Draco’s expression ebbed softer before he darted forward to kiss Harry again, burying his hands in Harry’s robes once more. They gasped apart from each other to wrench them over Harry’s head, and he shed his t-shirt seconds after, both garments tumbling to the floor in a heap.

Draco twisted back into him, trailing his lips down the side of Harry’s neck. Between the scrape of fabric against his skin, the graze of teeth over his collarbone, and the flicks of tongue across his nipples, Harry didn’t think he’d ever been harder. “Off,” he urged, pulling at the hem of Draco’s sweater, and Draco complied, peeling it from his chest, then, sweeping his hands down to his belt, unfastening the buckle, shimmying out of his trousers, and tossing them aside. The whole thing took less than fifteen seconds, and now Draco Malfoy was sprawled across the bed in black boxer briefs, blond hair disheveled, breathing hard, and gazing up at Harry, eyes questioning and unguarded. A splash of black beat across the underside of his left forearm, and as Draco shifted, the green light reflected off a smattering of long, white scars on his chest. He looked entirely too beautiful. 

Harry only realized he’d been staring too long when Draco threw his head to the side, curling inward to hide himself. Climbing on top of him, Harry lowered his head, kissing each scar he could distinguish in the dim light, and with a pounding heart, he lifted Draco’s left arm, brushing his lips softly over the curved black lines. When he met Draco’s eyes again, they were wide and alarmed.

Draco gazed intently at him while unbuckling Harry’s belt, his fumbling fingers at first a question, then growing confident as they stripped him of his jeans, leaving just two thin layers of fabric between them. Harry arched against him, and the grey eyes snapped shut, a hand snaking beneath the band of Harry’s boxers, the cold fingers scalding as they wrapped around Harry’s cock. Harry sucked in a quick breath, his whole body humming with adrenaline, and shoved his boxers down past his knees, Draco kicking at them until they dangled from an ankle. Draco stroked him tentatively, brushing his thumb over the head. Harry thought he might come then and there.

Twisting his hand into Draco’s boxers, Draco shuddered beneath him, and Harry wanted nothing more than to take him apart piece by piece. But as Draco began teasing his hand over Harry, stroking him with a loose fist and raising his head to suck at Harry’s neck, his focus spiraled in on how fucking perfect his dick felt in Draco’s hand with no room for anything else. “Fuck, Draco,” he whispered, and Draco’s eyes snapped up to Harry’s, blown wide with desire. He curled his hand tighter. Harry was fairly certain the whines coming from his mouth weren’t exactly attractive, but with Draco raking darkened eyes over his body and ever-so-slightly tightening his grip at just the right moment, it didn’t matter. Harry came hard, spurting his release through Draco’s fingers and onto his stomach. Collapsing on top of Draco, head in the crook of Draco’s neck, he planted a sloppy kiss there, his heart thumping out a ridiculous beat like a Morse code message from his chest into Draco’s.

As his heart rate came down, he pushed up, supporting his weight on his hands. Draco’s eyes were wild and uncertain. _He thinks I’ve forgotten about him_ , Harry thought, squeezing the hand that was wrapped loosely around Draco’s cock, causing it to twitch in response. Harry leaned down, kissing him gently, and with one hand, tugged down Draco’s boxers, urging his hips to lift so he could slide them to his knees. Then, sitting up, straddled across Draco’s lap with cum smeared across both of their midsections, he started moving in earnest. As Draco writhed into his fist, staring at Harry, wanton and vulnerable, Harry wanted to tell him he was beautiful, that he would give him everything he needed, if he could just tell him what that was, that he didn’t understand any of this but he wanted it anyway, could they spend all their nights together? But he didn’t say any of this, instead pouring his thoughts silently against Draco’s tongue, until Draco stiffened beneath him, every muscle rigid, and spilled over Harry’s hand and across his own stomach. His head jerked back against the pillow as he gasped his release, cheeks pink and hair falling into his eyes. 

Huddled on top of Draco, chests heaving and breaths ragged, he smiled against Draco’s shoulder. Feeling the movement, Draco turned his head, examining him inquisitively, and Harry stretched his head to offer a short but hard kiss before collapsing once more against Draco’s chest. After what felt like a long time, he rolled off from Draco, dropping down next to him, the partially dried mess chilling his skin. Impulsively, he reached over and wiped a sticky hand across Draco’s abdomen.

Draco glanced at Harry, yelping a sound of disgust.

Harry laughed. “It’s yours.”

“Yes, because that makes it better,” Draco responded sardonically.

With both wands buried in their mound of clothing on the floor, Harry extended his hand over the mess on Draco’s stomach and focused on producing a cleaning charm. He felt the familiar surge of energy course through his arm and exit through his palm. “Better?” he asked, casting a second charm on himself.

“Mostly,” Draco decided, touching his stomach gingerly. “I wasn’t aware you could cast wandlessly.” He raised his eyebrows, impressed.

Harry blushed under the warm weight of Draco’s appreciation. “Just a few spells. And they’re weaker than when I use a wand.”

Draco nodded. Hovering one of his own hands over Harry’s torso, he scrunched his face in concentration, and moments later, Harry felt a wave of heat washing gently over his chest and rippling across his skin. He reveled in the sensation of Draco’s warming charm, much as he had all those weeks ago, but as he lay next to him, stripped bare and utterly content, it felt more intimate this time.

“Show off,” Harry teased with a smile.

A huge, unguarded grin bloomed across Draco’s face. “It’s only one of two that I can do wandlessly.” He lifted his hand again, this time his palm facing up. An orb of light blossomed from the center and rose several feet, fracturing into dozens of separate smaller bulbs and forming a net of light over the bed.

Harry glanced at Draco, whose eyes were probing Harry’s cautiously, searching for approval. “That’s lovely.” Draco blushed under the praise, smile firmly on his face. As he glanced away, Harry wondered who had last offered him any sort of encouragement and when. “How’d you learn?”

Draco shrugged. “I spent a good portion of last year without a wand. I found feeling powerless to be a fairly good motivator.”

“I guess that’s my fault,” Harry admitted guiltily.

Draco turned his head, their eyes only inches apart and stared impassively at him for a few moments before looking away and saying, “It’s done. Or at least I’d like for it to be.”

Harry was used to that desire; it was one he experienced daily. “Do you think it ever will be?”

Draco sighed. “No. Not really,” he admitted. He remained pensive for a moment. “But I think it will get better,” he mused, as if verbalizing the comforting idea would bring it to life. He turned his head and kissed Draco’s bare shoulder. “None of this made any sense,” Draco continued, an edge of latent frustration tinging his words. “Not when it started, certainly not while it was happening, and not even now that it’s finished.” He frowned. “I wish there had been some form of closure. For Vince. For my father. For Greg. Maybe I could come to terms with it. Start to move on.”

“Where is he?” Harry asked, emboldened by Draco’s uncharacteristic confession.

Draco rolled his head to look at Harry. “Greg?” Harry nodded. “He did his six months in Azkaban. Then he left Britain without telling anyone. He owled me a few weeks ago to tell me he was okay but not coming back. He’s in New Zealand now, working as a fucking sheep farmer or something.” Draco let out a derisive laugh, but Harry understood him well enough at this point to hear the pain behind it. He slid his hand down Draco’s forearm, twining their fingers together and squeezing tightly. He relaxed his grip and Draco’s return squeeze was just shy of painful.

“I can’t stop wondering if I’d done things differently, if I’d been a better friend to them, if they’d be here now,” Draco whispered. After a moment, he smiled tightly, his lips stretched thin. “I know. It’s over. What happened happened, and these kinds of thoughts won’t change a damn thing,” he intoned, his voice bitterly mocking.

“They won’t,” Harry agreed gently, “but knowing that’s never stopped me from raking over every detail, trying to work out how I might have protected people or stopped bad things from happening.” Draco’s face slackened and he pressed his forehead against Harry’s shoulder. “I think you’re right,” Harry decided after a moment, and Draco peeked up at him. “It will probably never really be over. I guess I’m still trying to be all right with that.”

Draco squeezed his hand again, this time in solidarity. “It will get better, Harry.” Draco rolled flat onto his back, sighing, and Harry wondered when he’d become so optimistic. Laying side by side, still completely naked and slightly sticky, the absurdity of the situation struck Harry. He bit down on a smile. Next to him, Draco shook his head as if to scatter the offensive thoughts. Extending a long, pale finger to poke tenderly at one of the floating balls of light, he suggested, “If nothing else, you’ve got more money than God, every door open to you, and you’re young and vital. That’s something to celebrate, right?”

“I have no idea what to do with all of that gold,” Harry grumbled.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Are you kidding? Anything. Invest it. Donate it. Travel. Buy a Quidditch team. Buy _two_ Quidditch teams. Buy a whole new set of robes.” Harry laughed. “In fact, I insist. That would kill two birds with one hex, so to speak. New clothes would be a form of charity in themselves. No more scorched retinas from looking at your old ones.”

“I’ve never bought myself clothes,” Harry mused.

“You don’t say,” Draco inserted dryly.

Harry kicked Draco in the shin. “I’m not sure I’d know where to start.” He lifted his leg to dodge Draco’s retaliatory kick. “I could ask Hermione or Ginny or Luna to help, I suppose.”

Draco laughed. “Please ask Luna. I’d love to see you in a pair of radish earrings.”

Harry grinned. “They’d suit me.”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Draco agreed, and then, after a pause, he frowned and added, “I won’t pretend I’m not wounded that you didn’t consider asking me. I have excellent taste.”

“Of course I did, you dolt. I didn’t know you’d want to help. Do you think you could manage it without mocking me?” Harry asked.

“No,” Draco responded without hesitation.

Harry sighed. “Fine. Luna it is, then.”

Draco turned to face Harry, his expression faux-serious. “I promise I will keep the mocking to a minimum.”

Harry laughed. “Something tells me that even your minimum will be more than enough.”

“Consider it a favor.”

“A favor?”

“Everyone else fawns over you. I’m just doing my part to keep you humble.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “You’re such a humanitarian.”

“I do my best,” he replied, a small smile still tugging at his lips.

After a moment, Draco heaved a sigh and unceremoniously draped himself over Harry, dangling over the edge of the bed and stowing their clothes safely out of sight. Harry took the opportunity to run his hands over Draco’s arse, which was displayed prominently in this position, eliciting a muffled, “Prat,” from an upside-down Draco. When he righted himself, hair rumpled and face red, his eyes were glaring but his lips were curved into a smile. “Up,” he insisted, prodding at Harry’s hip until he lifted his body. Nudging blankets and sheets from beneath their bodies, Draco drew them up to their shoulders, shielding their bare skin from the chilly dungeon air now that the warming charm had dissipated. He cast a wandless _nox_ , plunging the room into darkness until Harry’s eyes adjusted to the dim, green light. Burrowing into the sheets, Draco lay back again, eyes closing and head drooping against the pillow, face turned away. Harry rested his head on Draco’s shoulder, feeling warm and comfortable and safe.

“Draco?”

“Hmm?” Harry felt the sleepy reply vibrate across Draco’s chest and against his cheek.

“What did you mean about traveling? Where would you go?” Harry asked.

Draco opened his eyes and turned his head towards Harry. “Everywhere. China, America, Romania, Egypt, Brazil. I’d just get away. Remind myself there’s more to the world than all of this mess.”

“I think you’re onto something,” Harry told him.

“Mm,” he mumbled, turning his head away again. “That’s nice.” He shifted onto his side, curling his knees and pressing cold bare, feet against Harry’s calves. “Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Come here and be quiet.” Harry laughed softly. Flipping onto his side as well, he curled behind Draco, chest against back, and threw a haphazard arm across his body, drawing him closer. Draco grabbed hold of Harry’s arm, cradling it to his chest. “Goodnight, Draco,” Harry whispered against the back of his neck, and Draco nestled more tightly against Harry. He closed his eyes and drifted into sleep, feeling lighter than he had in months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ten times over to everyone who's been traveling along with me so far, checking in with comments or suggestions or what have you. I'm not sure I would have made it this far without all of y'all. I am ridiculously grateful for the support!!!


	14. Discretion, Pt. 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, thank you, thank you (and about a thousand more 'thank yous') to everyone who keeps reading my story and anyone who is giving it a chance for the first time today. I am ridiculously grateful for the support!

Draco blinked into consciousness, naked, sticky, and sweltering beneath a pile of blankets and someone else’s limbs. Squinting his eyes against the green-tinged daylight, the reason for the tangle of sweaty limbs crashed over him all at once, and his muscles stiffened. He peeked over his shoulder. Harry was fast asleep, sprawled behind him, his eyelids thrumming as he dreamt. Draco’s shoulders relaxed. Part of him was pleased as punch that Harry was here, that he’d stayed the night, that he’d wanted Draco, while part of him was terrified that Harry was going to wake up, admit the whole thing had been a mistake, and stomp out of the Dungeons in a temper. A third, increasingly louder part of him, however, was growing agitated by the arm and leg that were harnessing him tightly, sealing in every bit of the Chosen One’s considerable body heat. That panicked, claustrophobic voice was shouting, _Abort!_

Scrunching down in the bed, he tried to extricate himself from the oppressive nest of limbs and humidity, performing an ungainly squirming maneuver to scoot farther away from Harry. Harry grunted in his sleep, and Draco stilled immediately. With the Privacy Charms from the previous night undoubtedly worn off, he couldn’t afford to startle him. He waited. No movement. Letting out his breath, he resumed his inelegant squiggling, until Harry grunted again, curling his arm around Draco to pull him tighter than before. _Well, this isn’t going to fucking work_ , he thought, growing more hot and frantic as he formulated a new plan. Finally, deciding that this whole situation was ridiculous, he took hold of Harry’s arm and carefully moved it off him, setting it lightly on Harry’s own stomach, but his efforts not to alarm him were futile; Harry jolted awake while Draco was carrying out Part Two of the extraction.

Draco studied him cautiously as he adjusted to his surroundings, stroking a comforting hand across his arm. Sleepy eyes lit on Draco’s face, brilliantly green in the Slytherin Dungeon glow and a bit unfocused without glasses, but all traces of Draco’s anxiety melted away. Breaking into a grin, Harry rolled flat on his back and stretched his arms above his head. “Morning,” he expressed loudly through a yawn.

Draco clapped a hand over Harry’s mouth, just as he’d done the night before, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. Fighting back a smile as Harry’s eyebrows rocketed upward, Draco instead climbed on top of him, the blankets twisting between them. He brought his index finger to his lips, motioning for silence, and Harry nodded, so Draco withdrew his hand after a moment, sweeping down for a quick kiss before he dipped over the edge of the bed and fumbled through the pockets of his robes. This put them in the awkward position of having two morning erections pressed against each other, and when Harry let out a stifled moan, Draco couldn’t blame him for breaking the Sacred Oath of Silence. Draco had gone his whole life with nothing but his own hand and fantasies of what rutting against someone else might feel like, and now that he’d experienced the real thing, he never wanted to resume the former practice again.

Reemerging with his wand in tow, Draco collapsed back onto his side of the bed, casting a series of Privacy Charms over the hangings. He smirked at Harry’s dazed expression. “As you may have noticed, Blaise is terribly indiscreet, and I could do without being caught up in another scandal, thank you very much.”

Harry groaned. “True. If the _Prophet_ had a field day over the Luna situation, I can’t imagine the uproar being caught sleeping with, er, well, me would cause.” His cheeks tinged pink as he stumbled over his own words.

Draco bit back a smile at Harry’s unintentional arrogance. “Yes, I’m sure it would be horribly dramatic. Allegations of Imperious Curses and insinuations that I’ve been performing Dark Magic rituals on you, or some such nonsense. I’d have to flee the country.”

Harry examined Draco from the corner of his eye. “Let’s try to avoid that, shall we?”

“I completely support that decision, but it does rely on you shutting your mouth until the Privacy Charms are implemented,” Draco responded loftily.

“Not my forte,” Harry admitted while running a warm, rough hand along Draco’s stomach.

“I’m well aware,” Draco returned, albeit a bit more breathlessly than he would have liked.

“Oh, be quiet,” Harry muttered, rolling on top of Draco and capturing his mouth in a kiss. It started out gentle and careful, with warm lips and several strands of Harry’s sleep-tangled mop flopping over to tickle Draco’s forehead, but at the moment Harry’s tongue entered the equation, it grew heated, sending his heart thudding to a frenzied rhythm. Harry’s hands skimmed Draco’s jawline, teasing over his neck before finding a firm grip on his shoulders. Sucking briefly on Draco’s bottom lip, Harry grazed his teeth lightly along its edge, and Draco wondered who had taught Harry how to kiss like this, _was it Weasley?_ , before rejecting that train of thought lest it make him sick, not wanting to know who else had been where he was now, who else had touched him.

When Harry released his mouth, dropping wet, teasing kisses across his neck instead, Draco regained some semblance of reason. “If we start this now,” he gasped, “we’ll never get to our classes on time.”

Harry pulled back to gaze at Draco, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his smile. “What a shame that would be,” he breathed before stealing another kiss.

“It would be if someone were to notice we were both absent and made the none-too-difficult deduction that we were together.” Draco nudged Harry so he had no option but to tumble back onto the bed.

Pulling a face, Harry stared glumly at the blankets. “Point taken. Secrecy is our ally,” he conceded. “But I, er, would like for this to continue.” He sneaked a small, hopeful glance at Draco.

This wasn’t a one-off. This was real. Harry wanted it. He wanted it last night, he still wanted it this morning, and he wanted it for the foreseeable future. He’d just admitted it. Out loud.

Lost in a private bubble of joy, he didn’t recognize Harry’s reaction to his internal rhapsodizing until two green, unusually spectacle-free eyes were staring anxiously at him, completely crestfallen. “I want this to continue, as well,” Draco indicated, and a smile broke across Harry’s face in response. “I just don’t want to be hexed into oblivion for corrupting the Chosen One.”

“I’m incorruptible,” Harry threw back. It was a challenge, accompanied by a leering grin – a challenge that Draco was prepared to accept.

“I’d like to try, regardless,” Draco replied, already bringing his lips to Harry’s neck, trailing kisses over his collarbone and down his sternum. He glanced up at Harry, whose eyes were heavily lidded, then flickered his tongue over the skin of Harry’s abdomen. 

“Wait, have we missed breakfast?” Harry exclaimed suddenly, his eyes flying wide open and staring down at Draco, horrified.

Draco pulled back, bemused. “You weren’t willing to quit snogging to attend classes, which may actually affect our futures, but the prospect of food negates all stabs at corruption?”

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Harry suggested innocently, his stomach grumbling loudly as if to prove the point.

“Your stomach concurs,” Draco sighed. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. I have seen you eat before.” He sat up, blankets tumbling into his lap, and stretched his arms above his head.

Harry frowned. “I guess we can’t sit together at breakfast.”

“Probably not.” Draco leaned back on his hands. “That would be counterproductive to keeping my roommates, or anyone else for that matter, from –” Draco stopped short as a horrific thought struck him. “Oh, fuck.” He sat up straight, and Harry’s eyes widened in alarm. “How are you going to get out of here unseen?” Draco ran a hand through his hair, making the already wild strands still wilder. “Why did we fail to even consider that?” Unexpectedly and with total disregard for Draco’s panic, Harry grinned. “If you’re grinning about that sodding map, that’s not helpful,” Draco growled, glaring sharply at him. “Unless it has powers that no piece of parchment should possess, it can’t make nosy people disappear.”

Harry laughed. “True. That _sodding_ map can’t do anything of the sort, but my invisibility cloak could probably be of use.”

Draco dropped the hand that had been pinching the bridge of his nose into his lap. “Of course you have your invisibility cloak with you,” he grumbled.

Harry grinned wider. “Is it a _sodding_ invisibility cloak?” he asked, leaning closer and nudging Draco’s shoulder with own.

Draco attempted a scathing response to Harry’s jibe, but instead snorted out a chuckle. “Would it make you happy if it was?”

Harry shrugged, still smiling. “Anything that riles you up makes me happy.”

“This relationship is doomed,” Draco sighed.

“Oh, without a doubt,” Harry replied happily, “but I’d like to give it a shot anyway.”

Draco’s cheeks warmed, and he stared at Harry for as long as he could without feeling like he might admit something sentimental. He cleared his throat, draping himself over Harry’s lap once more, and thrust his arms under the bed to gather yesterday’s clothing. Hoisting himself upright again, he dumped the armful over Harry’s head with a smirk. Harry shook off the clothes, giving Draco a dirty look, which he ignored in favor of picking through the previous night’s debris.

Harry pulled his glasses from underneath the pillow. “It’s a miracle those don’t break all the time, the way you treat them,” Draco commented.

“Oh, they do,” he agreed, nodding. “But it’s fine. We have a working relationship: I generally abuse them, and in return, they stay round and ugly, no matter which spell I try.” He unfolded the temples and shoved the pair of glasses roughly onto his face. 

Draco snorted and slid his sweater over his head. “Your glasses are transfiguration resistant?”

“Yep.” Draco arched a skeptical eyebrow. “You don’t believe me? Want to give it a go?” Harry smirked.

Draco cocked his head. “All right.” Not able to back down from a challenge, Draco flicked his wand at Harry’s glasses, the frames smoothing into a less offensive rectangular form with soft edges and grey accents. Draco smirked triumphantly at Harry, who stared back, completely unfazed. Seconds later, the frames reverted to their original round-and-black form with an obnoxious _POP!_ Draco’s eyebrows shot upward. He could almost sense the glasses flipping him off.

“So, yeah, that happens anytime someone tries to change them. While I was still growing, I could make them bigger, and I can mend them when they’re broken, but anything else causes a mutiny.” Draco reached out and removed Harry’s glasses, inspecting them. “Hermione thinks that because they’ve needed magical repairs too many times, they’ve absorbed a bit of my magic. That, plus my own stubbornness.” Draco returned the glasses gently to Harry’s face. “She explains it better than that,” he muttered self-consciously, adjusting the frames to sit better on his ears. “I could replace them, I suppose, but honestly, I’m so used to them that my face looks wrong without them.”

Draco scanned his face. He was right. After all these years of seeing the perfectly circular frames around his eyes, they had become a part of Harry. “Your life is very strange,” he stated.

“You’re not wrong,” Harry muttered, laughing a little. His face grew pink under Draco’s gaze, and he looked away. “It’s brighter down here than I expected,” he mused. “Is all that light really coming from the lake?” he asked, plucking his t-shirt from the pile and forcing it over his head. Under the muted green lighting, it was colored more like cat-sick than Cannons orange.

“Not entirely, no,” Draco explained, threading his arms through the sleeves of his sweater. “The glass is charmed to amplify the sun’s rays. Otherwise it would be dark and depressing down here, which wouldn’t be fair to the Slytherins, now would it?” he teased. “I’m happy to hear that the Slytherin dorms are exceeding your expectations, though.”

Harry smirked back, shimmying into his jeans. “Jury’s still out. I had a nice evening, and it’s not depressingly dark, but there are skulls decorating your Common Room, so…”

“Only a few,” Draco scoffed, fastening his belt. He picked up his robes, then, changing his mind, laid them across his pillow; he’d have to swap his clothes after Harry left anyway.

“Yes, and that’s a few more than any Common Room should have,” Harry laughed. He tugged his tatty robes over his head, not bothering to straighten them even though they laid crooked on his shoulders, then pulled a handful of beautifully patterned material out of his pocket, balled up in a way that made Draco want to spread the garment out and apologize to it. Draco unconsciously extended a hand toward the fabric, running his fingers over the silky fabric and humming appreciatively. “It was my Dad’s,” Harry offered with a hint of familial pride. He ran his thumb over the cloak, then glanced up at Draco uncertainly. “Will you walk me out? It would probably be for the best if you opened doors. That way no one thinks Slytherin House has invisible spirits.”

“No, just skulls,” Draco deadpanned. “And yes, I can walk you out. Although, won’t it be rather odd for me to turn around immediately after opening the Common Room door?”

Harry shrugged. “Just pretend you’ve forgotten something in the dorms.” He patted the cloak affectionately then rose onto his knees, shaking out the fabric. Before throwing it over his head, he paused and inquired uncertainly, “So, I’ll see you tonight?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You’re planning on skipping classes after all?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “No, but if you want to be discreet then I probably won’t talk with you during classes. But we’ll still meet up tonight like usual, yes?” His stomach punctuated the question with a loud gurgle.

“Yes, now go before your stomach revolts so impressively it disturbs the Privacy Charms.” Draco caught sight of Harry’s answering grin for just a moment before he vanished entirely.

Draco pulled back the curtains wide enough to slip through, and as they emerged, he was relieved to find that Blaise and Theo were still in bed, hangings closed. Draco opened the door and exited, waiting an extra couple of seconds to ensure that Harry had time enough to exit before closing the door behind him. He made his way down the corridor and across the Common Room, which was empty save a huge roaring fire.

“This is weird. Are you still there?” Draco murmured. He felt something elbow-sized prod him in the ribs and pursed his lips against a smile. “Thanks for that.”

Cracking the Common Room entrance for Harry to sneak out, he whispered, “Bye?” the questioning farewell hanging on empty air.

Silky fabric ghosted eerily over his face, a gesture which he presumed to be an Invisible-Harry attempt at a kiss. “See you later,” Harry chuckled quietly. In the silence of the Dungeons in the morning, Harry’s soft footfalls were swallowed by the stone walls, ebbing softer as he moved down the corridor, and when Draco could no longer hear them, he shut the door and retreated to the dormitory. 

As he traversed the Common Room, the stillness was broken by Pansy exiting the girls’ corridor. Draco gave her an absent wave, and she raised her eyebrows upon watching him veer towards the boys’ corridor. “Where are _you_ going?” she called across the room.

Draco paused, pointed down the hallway towards his dorm, then edged slightly in that direction. She made her way across the common room, stopping in front of Draco.

“No, you’re not,” she decided, shaking her head and adjusting the school robes, her white collar, tie, and sweater just peeking out the top. “You’re not skipping breakfast again. I don’t care the reason. You have to eat, you idiot.” She glared sharply at him.

“A touching speech, Pansy, but you can get off your high horse,” he drawled. “I was just going to change my clothes and grab my bag before leaving.”

“Change your clothes?” She inspected his attire then raised an eyebrow. _Shit._

“Yes. I’ve decided against this sweater. It’s too itchy,” he lied calmly, but as a wide grin bloomed across her face, he was sure his attempts at subterfuge had failed.

“Bollocks. You worship that sweater. But I can see why you’d want to change your clothes if you’re only just getting in now.” She smirked. “Plus, the whole ensemble really doesn’t match your hickeys.”

Draco slapped a hand to the side of his neck and scowled. “I didn’t just get back.”

“Other side,” she said, peering around the side of his head. He moved his hand to cover the other face of his neck. “Wait,” she said, her grin growing wider, “they’re on both sides.” She looked as though she couldn’t be happier about Draco’s growing discomfort.

Draco glared at her, dropping his hand to his side. “Can you at least try to be helpful and remove them for me?” he growled irritably.

“But this is so much more fun,” she laughed.

“Harpy.”

She grinned at him, then, after a few moments, relented. “Fine. Stand still.” He stretched his neck so the skin was more visible and then stood still as she extracted her wand and swept it over each side of his neck. “So, if you’re not just getting back now, then why are you dressed in yesterday’s clothes and covered in Potter’s hickeys?”

Draco felt his face warm. “I was showing him out, actually,” he explained stiffly, not meeting her eye line.

“Adorable,” she purred. His eyes snapped to hers. She was smiling deviously. “And how was your Slytherin Sleepover?”

He narrowed his eyes. “That doesn’t deserve a response.”

“Does he have a big penis?” she asked too loudly. Draco darted his eyes around the room, which was thankfully empty. “Because I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been at least a little curious about the Chosen Penis, the Penis Who Lived, the –”

“For the love of Merlin’s hairy arsehole, I’m begging you to stop talking.” She laughed harder. “I’m leaving,” he declared, turning to escape down the corridor and into his dorm.

“Wait!” she cried, tugging on his wrist. He spun to face her once more, finding that her expression had grown serious. “You’re okay, right? This is what you want?” He stared at her for a moment, then nodded curtly. Eyes wide, she offered a small but genuine smile. “You’re happy?”

His expression softened. “Yes,” he responded, then after a brief pause, added, “But you have to keep it quiet.” She nodded absently. “Promise me,” he demanded.

She rolled her eyes. “Good grief, Draco. I promise. Discretion is my middle name.”

“No, it really isn’t,” he replied glumly, “but I suppose I have no choice but to trust you.”

“That’s very true,” she laughed. “Now go get ready. I’ll expect you at breakfast in ten minutes,” she commanded him, the unsaid _or else_ ringing in his ears. “I expect you’re famished after last night,” she added, smirking.

“I’ll never live this down, will I?”

“Not until some equally strange and embarrassing fate befalls you, and I can mock you for that instead.” Whipping her hair behind her, she left him shaking his head and groaning as she marched towards the exit. He watched her disappear, then continued down the corridor, sparing a scathing glance for his paint-immortalized ancestor, who was glaring lividly out of his frame, before letting himself into the dorm. Blaise was standing at the edge of his wardrobe, trousers still unbuttoned and shirt hanging open over his chest. He grinned as Draco walked in, and Draco gave a nod in return. Theo was perched on the edge of his bed, dressed but still pulling on his socks. He glanced at Draco and then back at his feet, scowling.

Draco yanked his bed curtains fully open and stared at the crumpled sheets, feeling a blush creep up his face. Frowning, he tugged his sweater over his head.

“You’re looking all hot and bothered this morning,” Blaise commented, buttoning his shirt.

“Pansy,” he sighed with exasperation.

“Ah. I thought it might have been Potter,” he suggested, glancing at Theo, who was still intent on his shoes but was now holding back a smirk.

Draco’s hands stopped working on his belt. “Excuse me?”

Blaise raised an eyebrow as he tightened his tie. “Was it not Potter whom you were sneaking out of here this morning? Shame.” Theo’s head snapped up, betraying his interest.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Draco crossed the room and rummaged his wardrobe for a suitable shirt amidst a long, uncomfortable silence. When he turned back, Blaise and Theo were exchanging a look. “What?” he challenged.

Theo sighed. “I cannot overstate how little I want to do with this disaster waiting to happen, but even I know that’s crap, Draco.”

“Disaster waiting to happen?” Blaise pretended to gasp. “That’s young love you’re disparaging.” Both Draco and Theo glared at him. He grinned back broadly. Scowling, Draco continued rummaging through his wardrobe. “So, did he use his invisibility cloak?” Blaise continued, sitting on the edge of his trunk to put on his shoes. “I bet you’re finding it less irritating than you did during sixth year.” Draco gritted his teeth. “Or did you just use a Disillusionment Charm? They always were a particular strength of yours,” he mused.

Wrenching a pair of charcoal trousers off a hanger, Draco faced him. “I _really_ don’t want to discuss this,” he hissed.

“Oh, don’t be like that, Draco. We only want to know so we can take the mickey out of you,” he explained gleefully.

“And there’s my incentive to be forthcoming,” Draco muttered sarcastically.

Theo gave Draco a sly look. “It did happen in our shared dormitory, so I don’t think you have a leg to stand on if you’re trying to dictate the terms of the conversation.”

“An excellent point!” Blaise exclaimed joyfully.

“I thought you wanted to stay out of this?” Draco growled.

“I really do,” Theo groaned. “I don’t know what’s fucking wrong with me.” Jumping off his bed, he began absentmindedly sorting through the towering mound of school clutter covering his desk.

Tearing his eyes from Theo’s upsetting personal habits, he returned to his bed to finish changing. He ducked into a fresh sweater, and upon emerging found that Blaise was still ogling him like a kid entering Honeydukes for the first time. “Fine,” Draco snapped. “I did have a guest last night. Happy?”

Blaise nodded. “Yes. And we’ve already established that it was Potter.”

“And if it was?” Draco challenged.

Blaise’s eyes lit up. “Then we’d all breathe a sigh of relief. Fucking finally, am I right?” Theo grunted and Draco glowered at Blaise. “Although, as a bastion of perfect Slytherin etiquette, I’d have to remind you that Gryffindors are not allowed in Slytherin dorms.”

“Really, Blaise?” Theo questioned.

“Rules are rules,” he intoned.

Theo raised his eyebrows. “Yeah? What about Wayne Hopkins?”

“Or Mandy Brocklehurst,” Draco supplied.

“Padma Patil.”

“Anthony fucking Goldstein.”

Blaise frowned. “Ah, well, I admit he was a mistake. Never a Gryffindor, you’ll notice,” he pointed out.

Draco rolled his eyes. “The fact that he’s a Gryffindor is your only objection?” he asked, donning his robes.

Blaise laughed. “No, really, Draco, we couldn’t be more tickled.”

“We?” Theo muttered.

“You’ve been pining after the prat long enough,” Blaise continued.

“I have _not_ been pining,” Draco asserted.

“Speak for yourself, Blaise,” Theo grumbled. “And you have been,” he directed towards Draco.

“Oh, come now, Theo. Tell Draco how tickled you are.”

“Good lord, stop using the word tickled,” Draco complained. 

Blaise laughed. “Are you not tickled?”

Ignoring Blaise, Draco met Theo’s anxious eyes. “What?” he demanded. “Whatever it is, just spit it out.” Theo pursed his lips. “You don’t like Potter? That’s fine. I don’t much like him either,” Draco lied.

“…he says, fooling no one,” Blaise stage-whispered.

Draco leered challengingly at Theo. “No, I’m not one of Potter’s many fans,” Theo admitted, “but liking the bastard is irrelevant.”

“Then why exactly do you look like you’ve just swallowed Bubotuber pus?”

Theo sighed. “Look, I really do want to stay out of this. I’ve had enough fighting for a lifetime, and we get along. Let’s not ruin that.”

“So you’re, what? Protecting our _friendship_ by silently seething at me?”

“I’m not seething,” he supplied through gritted teeth.

“Bad logic, mate,” Blaise interjected. “You are, in fact, seething. Plus, you argue with Pansy all the time.”

“We all do. She’s insufferable!” He turned back to Draco. “Fine. You want to know what I think? I don’t give a flying fuck that he’s in Gryffindor, or even that you brought him here, although it’s a little messed up that you were shagging the Golden Boy ten feet from me last night. I just don’t think you’ve thought this through.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Thank you for your faith in my capacity for basic reasoning,” he snarled.

Theo sighed. “This is why I wanted to stay out of it. Just be careful, all right? I can’t see this going well for anyone. No matter how good of a shag he is.”

“I’m well aware that this is a bad match.”

“I think Theo is trying to express that we don’t want you to get hurt,” Blaise suggested gently, playing the mediator.

“I can take care of myself, but thank you for your concern,” Draco responded stiffly.

“Yeah, I know you can take care of yourself. Excuse me for being concerned anyway.” Theo snatched up his bag, stuffing it with indiscriminate handfuls of detritus from his desk, then stomped toward the door, passing Draco without meeting his eye. He paused at the door, hand on the knob. “Just fucking think about what I said, Draco.” He pulled the door open. “I really will leave it alone now,” he added more gently before shutting it behind himself.

There was a silence before Draco stalked to his desk and began piling his books and notes into his own bag. Glowering at the mountain of rubbish on Theo’s desk, he fastidiously ordered his own.

“Ah, Theo. Couldn’t leave it alone even if you had brought a Quintaped to bed with you,” Blaise chuckled, while packing his own bag. Draco gazed at him crookedly. “You know, because they…” he trailed off and Draco arched an eyebrow. “Well, it’s not a perfect metaphor, but still, he means well. Try not to do your Draco thing.”

“My Draco thing?”

“Yes, where you pretend you’re not upset but breathe fire on everyone for days.”

Draco’s lips quirked upward. “In this scenario, am I a dragon?”

“Obviously. And you know he’ll be over it by the time we get to breakfast anyway.”

Draco sighed. “Yes, well, it’s not as though I don’t know this isn’t a ‘disaster waiting to happen,’ as he so delicately framed it.” He raked his fingers through his hair to tame the wayward strands. “But he of all people should understand the desire to find some sort of happiness this year.” He gritted his teeth. _Keep it light_ , he scolded himself. “After such a pleasant night, being chided caught me off guard.” He smiled coyly.

Blaise’s eyes lit up. “I’m so curious.”

“That’s all you’re getting.”

“How unfortunate.”

“How did you two know anyway?” he asked, brow furrowing in frustration.

“It’s not as though you’ve been stealthy, either of you. You and Potter are practically a gay tragedy. We’ve known for months. Years, really. Plus, Potter’s not particularly quiet, is he?”

“Good fucking grief. You understand it has to be kept secret, yes?”

“Of course.”

“I mean it, Blaise. Silence. No one can know.” Blaise rolled his eyes. “Please,” Draco pleaded.

“I will not tell a soul,” Blaise indicated, crossing his heart with one hand and grabbing his school bag with the other.

“Can you make sure Theo knows to keep his mouth shut, too?”

“With pleasure. Now shall we hasten to breakfast? I’d hate to miss the kippers.” Blaise moved towards the door, a gleam in his eye, and Draco rolled his, wondering if Harry and Blaise might actually get along, seeing as they both frequently thought with their stomachs.

Shouldering his satchel, he followed Blaise from the room, peeking over his shoulder at the mess of sheets and blankets he never straightened out. Perhaps staying in bed with Harry all day would have been the better option after all, given that his promise to keep their relationship secret had fallen apart in less than fifteen minutes. He sighed and shut the door behind him, hoping that Pansy, Blaise, and Theo could keep their word better than he had kept his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing is this horrible and amazing process for me where I hate everything I've written until about a day before I post. It never goes as smoothly as I think it will, even if I plan my chapters like crazy. After about a billion edits, I usually end up at a place I feel comfortable with (if not happy with), but it takes a while. This is the first time in a while that I've really tried to write anything that wasn't like a mathematical proof or something sorta boring and academic. I've been learning so much as I go, and I think (hopefully!) getting better throughout this whole process, but I'm wondering if anyone has any tips for faster, better, more successful writing during a first draft, or even just a commiseratory "Yep, that's exactly what writing is like for me too"? Thanks!


	15. Parchment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is coming so much later than I had intended, and I'm incredibly sorry for that. Life interfered, in both good and bad ways, but I finally finished and I'm so excited to move on to the next chapter now. This chapter is a fucking beast (8k - I have no idea when that happened). The next chapter will be much more timely, I promise!
> 
> Thank you to [thegrimmscully](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrimmscully/pseuds/thegrimmscully), who sorted out my nonsense quite patiently. :) Any further mistakes belong to me!

Clad in plaid pajama bottoms and a white t-shirt, Harry was lying face down on his bed, his forehead resting atop a set of notes concerning vertebrate Conjuration as if direct skin contact were a valid learning strategy. He swung his legs listlessly, generating a soft _thwump_ each time a socked foot dipped against his pillow. It was the sound of boredom, swallowed almost instantly by scarlet bed hangings, and it did little to alleviate the monotony.

Lifting his head, his fingertips twitched towards the Marauder’s Map before falling impotently to the sheets. It was sitting just close enough to tempt him, but far enough away that he couldn’t decipher its secrets. Sighing, he sat up and stuffed the map beneath his pillow, instead flipping half-heartedly through his Transfiguration notes and cursing McGonagall for his current predicament. 

That afternoon, Ginny had slumped into a chair in the Common Room between Transfiguration and Quidditch practice, staying long enough to let slip that McGonagall had thrown a surprise quiz that had reduced even the cleverest to slack-jawed misery. Hermione had declared a state of emergency, mobilizing a group revision for every eighth-year Gryffindor, and Harry had joined them in the Common Room after dinner, his back to fire, his eyes on his notes, but his mind floors below, wrapped in green sheets and pale limbs. When the group disbanded hours later, he felt less prepared than ever and guilty for ignoring Hermione’s coaching so thoroughly that it was a bloody miracle she hadn’t lectured him. Rather than sinking happily under blankets and sheets that night, Harry had flopped onto his stomach with his Transfiguration notes, promising himself he would concentrate.

His promise rang hollow. He spent the first half hour ignoring his notes in favor of teaching himself Draco’s fractured _lumos_ , justifying it as time well spent because he couldn’t very well study in the dark. Then, once he actually began studying, he was unfocused. His eyes merely skated over the messily scrawled headings and bullet points, lighting on the occasional instance of the word ‘wand’ or ‘conjure’ or ‘hedgehog,’ and by the bottom of the page, he couldn’t have cobbled together a single coherent thought from any of it. 

Sitting up, Harry raked his hair out of his eyes and started from the top of the page once more.

“‘First, hold the image of a hedgehog firmly in mind, capturing its essence in your mind’s eye,’” he read out loud. “What exactly is essence of hedgehog?” he muttered. He shook his head and continued. “‘Next, apply the incantation _Erinacrestia_ (nvbl or vbl) with the following wand stroke pattern.’” There was a moving diagram of the wand strokes below. Drawing up his arm, he gave a haphazard attempt at the motions, then nodded impatiently, skimming through a section on troubleshooting (“Only half a hedgehog materialized”, “My hedgehog is multi-specied”, and “My hedgehog has run rampant”), before moving on to post-procedural cleanup.

“‘Before vanishing, first settle your hedgehog.’” He furrowed his brow. “Sure, because you wouldn’t want a disorderly hedgehog. Too hard to vanish,” he muttered. “‘Approach cautiously, lest the animal steal your wand,’” he read slowly, squinting at his poor penmanship. Beneath, Ron had sketched a hedgehog carrying a wand in its snout and donning a pointed wizard’s cap. The doodle was captioned “Hedgeric the Great, Fearsome and Vengeful” in block letters. Harry snorted. He thumbed through the remaining pages, discouraged by the sheer volume of material he had yet to cover. Sighing, he shoved his notes to the side. “Why would I need to conjure a hedgehog in the first place?” he complained.

“Dunno, Harry. You’re pondering one of life’s great mysteries,” Seamus groused. “Only, do you think you could ponder it quietly?”

“Er, yes. Sorry, Seamus,” Harry replied sheepishly, poking his head through a gap in his bed hangings. The other four beds were encased by red curtains, and tucking his head back inside, Harry pulled his shut as well.

There was a brief silence. “They’re kind of cute, I guess,” Neville suggested.

“Who is?” Ron murmured sleepily, rustling in his sheets.

“Hedgehogs. And they eat pests. Bugs and mice. Hedgehogs can be useful.”

“How do you know what hedgehogs eat, Nev?” Dean asked with quiet curiosity.

“Er. Remember in fifth year when we were learning to vanish them?”

“What is Minnie McG’s obsession with hedgehogs?” Seamus muttered through a yawn.

“Well, I couldn’t figure out how to do it for a couple of weeks,” Neville continued, “and I didn’t want to tell McGonagall, so I lured mine into my bag after the second day and told her I’d vanished it.”

“Christ.” Dean laughed. “Where’d you keep it?”

There was a pause. “Er. Here and there.”

Seamus gave a soft, resigned sigh. “You kept it in our dorm, didn’t you?”

“I really did try to vanish it.” Neville’s voice rose in pitch as he defended himself. “I think I had a particularly stubborn hedgehog. And he wasn’t too destructive. He only got into Ron’s trunk once.”

“What? When?” Ron cried. His bedframe creaked, and Harry cracked a smile, picturing him sitting up in bed, wide-eyed and affronted.

“Just the one time,” Neville reiterated. “And I captured him before he got into anything important.”

“I knew there were droppings in my trunk that year, but no one believed me,” Ron stated indignantly. “Do you remember that, Harry?” Harry shook with silent laughter, not trusting himself to respond.

“I did use a _scourgify_ , just in case,” Neville added sheepishly.

“That doesn’t make it better,” Ron griped.

Seamus sniggered. “You probably left your trunk open anyway.”

“What, so I was _asking_ for a hedgehog ransack my things?” Ron asked, outraged. Dean chuckled, the sound muffled by pillows and bed hangings.

“I _am_ very sorry,” Neville told Ron. “I named him Merlin, if that helps.”

“It does not,” Ron replied, disgruntled.

“He lives with my grandmother now,” Neville added softly.

“I thought you’d figured out how to vanish it?” Dean asked.

“I figured out how to vanish _a_ hedgehog. Just not _that_ hedgehog. I didn’t have the heart to vanish him after we’d been together for two weeks.”

“This is all well and good, mates, but I’d appreciate it if you’d all stuff it now so I can sleep,” Seamus said gruffly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ron grumbled, but Harry heard him shift back under his sheets.

Harry’s smile faded as he turned back to his Transfiguration notes, Hedgeric’s inked face mocking him from the corner of the page. He sighed. Vengeful, indeed. Swapping his notes for the Marauders Map, he leaned against the headboard and spread the map across his knees. Tiny figures bobbed around corridors, Common Rooms, and faculty lodgings – _what were Hannah Abbot and Ernie MacMillan doing in the kitchens at this hour?_ – but most of Hogwarts’ inhabitants had come to a sleepy standstill. 

He combed the map for Draco, locating him in the corner of the Slytherin Dungeons that marked the eighth year boys dormitory. Zabini and Nott were nearby, and Harry wondered if they were chatting, studying, or sleeping. _What if he’s fallen asleep and isn’t coming?_ he thought, disappointment seeping into his chest. He shook the thought emphatically from his head. It wasn’t that late yet – early enough that there were still two Gryffindors in the Common Room. Of course, Dennis Creevey and Wyatt Rickles frequently lingered in the Common Room after everyone had slunk off to bed, their late-night mischief having delayed Harry’s visits to the lake more than once. Harry could picture them, chairs pushed close to the fire, heads bent over parchment, quills hurriedly scratching out plans for their next stunt. Last week, they had charmed the Common Room’s cushions to turn their occupants’ hair lime green, and the week prior, they had scattered origami frogs around Gryffindor Tower, charmed to mimic conversations of those seated closest to them. Whatever scheme they were currently hatching had the potential to keep them in the Common Room for hours. Harry would have to devise a plan for intercepting Draco so they didn’t grow suspicious about self-opening Common Room doors. _Not that Draco has moved from his bed yet_ , he reminded himself sullenly. 

As slowly as the evening was inching along, the morning had leapt by quickly. Coasting on the high of having rectified things with Draco and having experiencing his first proper hand job, he had poked his head into the dorms after leaving the Slytherin Dungeons, finding it empty save for Neville, who had asked him where he’d been so early in the morning. Harry had frozen in place and muttered a quick lie about having visited the Owlery, and Neville had shrugged before humming absently and carrying on with his methodical morning routine. His roommates had grown accustomed to his frequent disappearances and no longer required detailed explanations. 

Ron, having already gone to breakfast with Hermione, would be harder to appease, however, and as Harry changed out of yesterday’s clothes into a fresh set, he was already coming to the conclusion that his best friends a) would likely be frantic, and b) deserved the truth about where he’d been, regardless of what he’d promised Draco about secrecy. He sighed. Knowing they deserved the truth and delivering it to them were two entirely different matters. Even the thought of the latter made his face glow red. Luckily, Neville was so absorbed in his absentminded puttering that he noticed neither Harry’s flushed face nor the oddity of him changing his clothes for ostensibly the second time that day. Harry left the dorms, issuing a hasty “see you later,” and hurried down to the Great Hall.

He hadn’t been entirely wrong. Upon walking into breakfast, Ron glanced up from his eggs and bacon and nudged Hermione. She laid down her Transfiguration notes, her face wavering between irritation, anxiety, and amusement. 

“Morning,” Harry greeted as he sat down, and Hermione’s eyebrow arched in a way that would have given Draco a run for his money. Harry loaded his plate, heartily ignoring them until the staring became too intrusive. “Er, hi,” he tried again, feeling sheepish.

“That’s it?” Ron muttered through a mouthful of eggs.

Amusement finally winning out, Hermione inquired, “Did you have a pleasant evening?”

Harry flushed. “Erm. Yes.” He crunched into a piece of toast, more out of the desire to avoid this line of questioning than out of actual hunger.

Whipping out her wand, she cast a _muffliato_. “So, I take it Malfoy doesn’t hate you?” she tried again. Harry gave her a pained look. For all of his revelatory bullshit about his friends deserving the truth, he wasn’t ready to explain what happened between him and Draco, worried that saying it out loud would somehow ruin it.

“You were really with him all night?” Ron blurted out.

Both Hermione and Harry stared at Ron with exasperation. “Yes, all right?” Harry sighed. “I spent the night in the Slytherin Dungeons, if you must know,” he admitted, prodding his scrambled eggs amidst the silence.

“Bloody hell. I’m not sure I actually needed to know that,” Ron finally managed to say.

Harry laughed. “Well, you did ask.”

“I did,” Ron acknowledged, rubbing his forehead and chuckling. “I regret it.” He glanced up again. “Are there still skulls everywhere in their Common Room?” His eyes widened further as an idea struck him. “Are they in their dorms, too?” he asked in a rush.

Harry chuckled. “I feel like you’re picturing the Slytherins sleeping on a pile of bones, mate. It’s not that grotesque, I promise. Their dorms are pretty much just like the Gryffindor dorms, actually. Or at least Draco’s is.”

“Oh.” Ron’s face fell.

Hermione’s lips twitched, then she turned to Harry and asked bluntly, “Does this mean the two of you are in a relationship?”

Harry choked, spraying bits of toast across the table. While Ron sniggered, Hermione flicked her wand, clearing the debris. Harry gave a brief, embarrassed nod. “I think so.” Ron and Hermione exchanged a long look. “It has to stay secret, though,” Harry hastened to add. “He doesn’t want the _Prophet_ to catch wind.” He shuddered a little. “I don’t, either. You know what Skeeter would have to say about it,” he added darkly.

“Yes.” Hermione pursed her lips. “I imagine it would be miserable for the both of you.”

“It’s still hard to believe you’re willing to risk that disaster for, well, him,” Ron said incredulously, jerking his head towards Draco, who was sauntering into the Great Hall next to Zabini. “You really want this, don’t you?” he asked as Harry made eye contact with Draco, an unintentional smile forming on his lips. Draco gave him a carefully measured smile in return, then flickered his eyes towards Ron, lifting an eyebrow quizzically. Harry grinned and shook his head. Turning back to Ron, Harry found him rolling his eyes and muttering, “I guess that answers my question,” before shoveling an entire egg into his mouth.

Hermione closed her notes and sighed.

“What?” Harry asked.

“Nothing. It’s just, I guess we’ll have to try to make amends with him now,” she replied.

“Why would we do that?” Ron gasped, coughing as he inhaled his eggs.

“Honestly, Ronald,” she tutted through a restrained smile, holding out her glass of pumpkin juice. “If he’s Harry’s boyfriend now, then we at least have to make an effort,” she explained.

“He’s been a git for the past seven years,” Ron hissed. “He should be the one to apologize. Not us.”

“I don’t expect either of you to try and be friends with him,” Harry insisted.

“See!” Ron exclaimed. “Even Harry doesn’t expect us to apologize.”

“That’s because Harry’s being too kind. I’m sure he’d prefer that we make an effort to like his boyfriend.” She glanced at Harry, and he carefully looked away. “And I’m not asking you to apologize. I’m asking you to make amends. Follow your own advice and put the past behind you. It worked for Harry,” she said with a sly grin. 

Ron gaped at her, but all further arguments were dampened by a large Barred owl swooping down and landing in front of Hermione, her outstretched leg bearing the _Daily Prophet_. Hermione waved away the _muffliato_ , and removed the rolled-up newspaper, placing a Knut in the sack tied to the owl’s leg and offering her a nibble of toast, which she snatched eagerly. As Hermione began unfurling the paper, the owl turned away, stretching her wings to take flight.

“Wait,” Harry cried. Hermione, Ron, the owl, and several nearby Gryffindors turned to stare at him. “Can I borrow her for a moment?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “Don’t ask me,” she told him, and gestured toward the owl, which was gazing at him imperiously.

He bent his head towards her, and she clicked her beak. “Can I borrow you for a minute? It’s –” his eyes flickered to the Slytherin table, “– a very short trip.” Hooting dolefully, she hopped across the table and stuck out her leg. Harry dug through the debris at the bottom of his bag, finding a wrinkled piece of parchment, a frayed quill, and a pot of ink.

“Are you sending a letter to him right _now_?” Hermione hissed, voice low.

Harry looked up, quilled poised above the parchment. “Erm. Yes?” 

Her eyes widened. “You don’t think that’s a bit conspicuous?” Harry stared at her, and she sighed. “Give me that.” She extracted the parchment from beneath his hand and examined it. “This is full of wrinkles, Harry,” she admonished, and pulled out a crisp sheet of parchment from her bag, tearing it neatly in two before casting a spell over both halves. She handed both pieces back. “There.” Harry and Ron stared at her blankly. “They’re a pair now,” she explained. “You can send one to Draco and keep the other, and the two of you can write each other messages without needing an owl.” The owl shot Hermione a dirty look and lowered her raised leg impatiently.

“That’s bloody brilliant, ‘Mione,” Ron exclaimed, causing her to blush. “Can you do one for Harry and me? I bet Potions would be a lot more interesting if – ow!” He rubbed his earlobe where she had just flicked him.

Harry snorted and began crafting his letter to Draco to the backdrop of Hermione telling Ron he needed to pay attention in class, and N.E.W.T.s were serious, especially given how far behind they already were.

_It's fucking freezing outside. Fancy a tour of the Gryffindor dorms tonight – only polite, since I’ve now been inside the Slytherin Common Room twice – instead of freezing our balls off by the lake?  
P.S. This parchment is Charmed - write your response here and I’ll see it on my half of the parchment._

He watched his words duplicate on Draco’s half. It reminded him a bit of Tom Riddle’s diary, except the words didn’t vanish into the parchment. He shuddered. Neither of them would be relinquishing any part of their soul today.

He rolled the parchment and placed it in the grip of the outstretched talons. “It’s for Draco Malfoy,” he whispered to her, and she took off, carrying the note across the Great Hall. Harry watched as the owl landed in front of Draco, dropping the letter in front of him and stealing bacon from his plate while he was distracted.

Draco scanned the note, raising his eyebrows when he was finished. He dismissed the owl before extracting a quill from his bag and jotting a response.

**I do prefer my balls in their current state. Shall I meet you somewhere so you can let me in?**

Harry cracked a smile.

_Do you object to borrowing my cloak and a password instead?_

Draco glanced up, surprised.

**You would trust me with either?**

Harry rolled his eyes as the words materialized.

_You’ve loaned me an article of your clothing. Plus, I now know the Slytherin password, so it’s only fair._

Draco smirked while reading his message.

**My scarf isn’t nearly as valuable as your cloak, but who I am to turn down such an advantageous trade? When and where?**

Harry quickly dashed off instructions.

 _I’ll stash it behind the statue of the one-eyed witch on the third floor. The password is_ dissendium. _The Entrance to Gryffindor Tower is behind the portrait of the Fat Lady (password:_ restituo _). Come anytime. I’ll watch for you on the map and let you in if there are still people in the Common Room. (Clear this parchment when we’re done)._

His response appeared seconds later.

**Consider it done. I’ll come when I can. P.S. Why is Weasley watching me like I’m up to something? Isn’t that usually your move?**

Harry glanced at his friends. Hermione was reading the paper, but Ron was peering at Draco over his shoulder.

_I had to tell them. Sorry. They’re okay with it, mostly. Ron is just concerned. And they know to keep it quiet._

Harry tapped his quill impatiently against the table, waiting for Draco’s response. Would he be upset?

**That explains the Charmed parchment. Granger’s work, I presume?**

Harry smiled, relieved.

_Yes. Are you impressed?_

Draco didn’t respond. He examined the parchment as if it had done him a great personal wrong, then stood up and made his way to the Gryffindor table, his face impassive. Stopping as he approached their end of the table, he stared steadily at the three of them.

“Er. Hello,” Harry offered when the silence had continued for too long. A quick glance confirmed that Draco’s presence had begun to attract attention.

Draco nodded at him, and Harry recognized the Malfoy brand of mortification in the stony set of his jaw. He wasn’t sure what Draco was doing here, and he was a little concerned that approaching the Gryffindor table was too conspicuous, but he offered Draco a small smile of encouragement anyway. Draco’s jaw relaxed marginally.

“Good morning, Granger,” Draco greeted stiffly after a long pause. “I was hoping I could speak with you for a moment?”

“What for?” Ron demanded. He glanced at Harry, as if trying to gauge the proper protocol for Malfoy handling now that one was dating his best mate.

Draco’s left eyebrow twitched with irritation, but his eyes remained fixed on Hermione. She stared back at him coolly before folding her newspaper and replying, “All right.” Relief flickered across Draco’s face, and for a moment, he was almost Harry’s Draco. But then Hermione rose from her seat, her caution clear in the tilt of her chin, and his face became stony once more.

Bristling, Ron stood as well. “I’ll come, too,” he stated. Draco narrowed his eyes. 

Hermione placed a firm hand on his shoulder, pushing him gently back into his seat. “It’s fine, Ron. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Draco motioned towards the doors, and Hermione followed him out of the Great Hall. The majority of the student body watched as they left, Ron straining bodily from his seat. Once they were out of sight, he turned towards Harry.

“What does he want?” he asked, his eyes searching Harry’s frantically for answers.

Harry’s brow furrowed. “I’m not sure,” he responded, although he had a suspicion that Draco was trying to make amends in his own stoic way. It would explain why he looked as though he had swallowed the Blast-End of a Blast-Ended Skrewt while requesting an audience with Hermione.

Ron peeked at the now vacant Great Hall entryway. “Do you think I should have gone with them?” he asked, hysteria creeping into his voice. Then, as if the question had been rhetorical, he declared, “I should have gone with them.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry. Whatever he wants, it’ll be fine.” He offered Ron a smile. Lowering his voice, he joked, “I spent the whole night with him, and I’m unscathed.” Ron looked unconvinced and continued staring at the entrance. “Really. He’s not the same person anymore,” Harry tried again. “None of us are,” he added, realizing for the first time how true that statement was, but Ron was too distracted to respond. Harry sighed.

“No, we’re not,” a voice agreed from his side. 

He turned, alarmed to find warm brown eyes and a mane of red hair peering over at him. “How much of that –” he began, his voice becoming strangled.

“Did I hear?” she finished for him. “Just the ‘he’s not the same person’ part. Why, what else did you say?” she added, her eyes flickering with interest. “Don’t think I missed the part earlier where the Golden Trio cast a _muffliato_ over their conversation.” She offered him a cheeky grin, and he groaned, both at her use of the term “Golden Trio” and at her observational skills. “So, do you have any explanation for all this?” she asked, using her hands to indicate their immediate area.

Picking at his napkin, Harry shook his head. “I’m just as confused as you are.”

Smiling softly, she raised her eyebrows. “I doubt that.”

He raised an eyebrow in return. “Do you?”

“Yes,” she smirked. “You’re a terrible liar, Harry. Always have been. I can see everything you’re thinking on your face.” Draco had said the same thing about him weeks ago.

“Oh, really? What am I thinking now?” he challenged.

“That Draco Malfoy is going to great lengths to get on your good side,” she suggested. “Are you dating him?” 

Harry’s smirk collapsed. He scanned her face, finding only open curiosity. He sighed in resignation. “How does everyone find out about this stuff?”

“Well, you were watching him with puppy dog eyes when he came over here.” She grinned. “Plus, Luna told me weeks ago that you two were a couple. Of course, she also told me that Kingsley Shacklebolt heads a Manticore poaching ring in his spare time, so I didn’t really believe it was true until now.” 

Harry chuckled a little before looking at her with concern. “It doesn’t bother me, you know,” she told him. “Not that you need my permission,” she hastened to add. “Just –” she paused, her expression twisting wistfully, “You don’t have to feel weird about telling me these things.”

He gave her a sheepish smile. “Well, we are trying to keep it quiet.”

“Really? You’re doing a lousy job,” she teased. He grimaced and she laughed. “Either way, you can trust me. It wouldn’t kill you to trust people a little more. They may surprise you.” She smiled and nudged his shoulder.

“Old habits, I suppose,” he replied. “So, do I get to make you feel uncomfortable about your love life now?”

“You can try. There’s not a lot going on there.”

“There’s always McLaggen,” Harry suggested with a cheeky grin. “He seems pretty keen.”

Ginny grimaced. “Merlin, no. And he’s a lot less keen since I didn’t let him onto the Quidditch team. It was miraculous intervention that he ended up in the hospital wing that weekend with his eyebrows growing out of control.”

Harry snorted. “Miraculous intervention? I’m fairly certain it was Hermione, although she’d never admit it. I mean, she did Confund him at tryouts two years ago.”

She grinned. “Right, like I said. Miraculous intervention.” She glanced down the table to where McLaggen was sitting, and Harry noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes. She looked as tired as he felt most days, and guilt tugged at him. He had no idea what was going on in her life, too caught up in his own dramas.

“How are you otherwise?” he asked.

She turned back to him, surprised. “Good. Busy.” She frowned. “N.E.W.T.s,” she said, shrugging and wrinkling her nose.

“What are you trying for?” he asked.

“Honestly? I just want to play Quidditch. A spot on any team would be fantastic, but I’ve got my heart set on the Holyhead Harpies.” She gazed across the room, her eyes wide and longing. She glanced back to him with a sigh, humor crinkling the corners of her eyes once more. “But, as my mum reminds me at every opportunity, ‘Quidditch isn’t a career, Ginevra; it’s a hobby,’” she intoned in an uncanny impression of Molly Weasley, both in tenor and expression. “And then she tries to sell me on Gringotts or the Ministry.” She rolled her eyes and Harry laughed. “So, yeah. I’m trying for a few N.E.W.T.s and seeing where that leads me.”

“Same. Well, minus the Quidditch part,” he amended, not feeling the need to add that two Quidditch teams had offered him reserve Seeker positions starting in June, or that he’d turned down both.

Ginny looked at him crookedly. “What happened to Auror training?” she asked quietly, casting a furtive glance at her brother, who was too busy craning his neck to watch the entrance to eavesdrop on their conversation.

Harry shrugged. “I’m just not sure I want to spend my life fighting.”

Ginny gave him a long, searching look. “You should think about teaching,” she finally suggested, and Harry grimaced. Noting his expression, she amended, “Well, maybe not teaching, but working with people. Helping them. You’re good at it, you know. Dueling Club wouldn’t be any good without you.”

Harry pursed his lips, skeptical. “People come because of my name.”

She shrugged. “Maybe that was true at first. But they come now to learn from you, not because you’re the _Chosen One_.” She drew out his _Prophet_ -given title, which was unfortunately still in wide circulation.

He smiled in spite of himself. “Thanks. I’ll, er, think about it. Right now, though, my most concrete plan is taking a nap this afternoon.”

Ginny groaned appreciatively. “That’s a fantastic idea, one I wish I could steal, except that I’ve got to do Transfiguration and Quidditch instead,” she grumbled.

They both glanced up as Ron swiveled abruptly in his seat to watch Hermione and Draco stroll through the doors. Hermione was chatting amiably with Draco, a smile on her face; Draco’s own reciprocal smile was small and tenuous but distinctly there. As they neared the table, Harry surmised they were discussing an Arithmancy assignment.

As Hermione gathered up her things, prattling nonsensically about matrices, null sets, and indefinite incantations, Draco hovered by the table, nodding thoughtfully. “We should study together sometime,” Hermione suggested.

Draco shot a nervous glance at Harry, who, for his part, smiled reassuringly, but Draco’s return smile disappeared after he caught Ron’s mutinous expression. “Perhaps. Thank you,” he replied stiffly. “If you’ll excuse me.” Without another glance at Harry, Draco stalked back to the Slytherin table. 

Ron visibly relaxed after Draco’s departure. “So, what did he want?” he asked casually, as if he hadn’t been a tight ball of irrationality the entire time she’d been gone. Ginny huffed a long-suffering sigh.

Hermione pursed her lips. “To make amends. He was very mature about the whole thing,” she said, clasping her bag and muttering something that sounded very much like, “Which is more than I can say for some people.”

Ron looked wounded. “I’m very mature,” he protested. Catching Harry’s eye, Ginny snorted, then slid back over to where she’d abandoned her bag to get ready for classes.

As they headed to Transfiguration, Ron pressed Hermione for details of her conversation with Draco, which she flatly refused to provide, and they spent the day bickering between classes, Hermione insisting that the conversation was personal and it wasn’t her choice whether to divulge the specifics, and Ron arguing that as her boyfriend, that sort of thing shouldn’t matter. Hermione finally snapped, telling him that he could ask Draco himself if he was so inclined, and before Ron could snipe back, Harry interceded, telling Ron he’d ask Draco later and report back. This mollified Ron, but it irritated Hermione.

The afternoon and evening crawled by for Harry, knowing that he would not only see Draco tonight but also likely sleep with him again. He kept getting hard at the most inopportune moments. Right before their Defense Against the Dark Arts professor called him up to demonstrate a wand technique, for instance. And then again, when Draco flashed him a grin at dinner. McGonagall intercepted him moments later to ask his plans for the next Dueling Club installation, and while prattling on about Reductor Curses and nonverbal dueling, he was agonizing over how best to discreetly adjust himself.

And now, alone in the solitude of his bed curtains with nothing but his own thoughts and the map to occupy himself, the wait was excruciating. He scanned the map once more, disappointment gnawing at him as he found Draco in the same spot as he had been five minutes prior. Harry sighed deeply, sinking down into his pillow, Transfiguration notes all but forgotten. He’d check the map again in a few minutes, but in the meantime, he closed his eyes, content to relive the previous night one more time.

* * *

The bed dipped and Harry jolted awake, a blurry figure spilling shadows over his face. His glasses had slipped down the bridge of his nose. Pushing them back into place, he sat up.

Draco was perched on the edge of his bed with a smirk on his face and the invisibility cloak folded over his arm. “Why is it that you always fall asleep when you’re waiting for me? Isn’t the promise of my presence enough to stymie your fatigue?”

Harry felt a giant question mark form on his face as his brain raced to catch up. Belatedly, he clapped a hand over Draco’s mouth. When Harry dug for his wand beneath his pillow, Draco tugged his arm away. 

“I’ve already cast Privacy Charms, you tosser,” Draco said, his mouth quirking upward. Sighing, Harry laid back on his pillow, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “I think you just wanted to cover my mouth,” Draco suggested, and Harry could hear the smile in his words.

He lowered his hands, peering at Draco blearily. “I owed you a couple. Bit alarming, isn’t it?” he teased.

Draco stared at him, eyes unreadable but a tiny smile still playing on his lips. “I’ve had worse.” He reached across Harry, picking up the discarded map and inspecting it. “Good job looking out for me,” he deadpanned.

“Did you have any trouble?” Harry asked, suddenly worried that Draco’s invisible presence had interrupted Dennis and Wyatt’s fireside scheming.

“No. I decided to be very Gryffindor about the whole thing and risk coming in without your help, since you didn’t respond to my messages.” He gave Harry a brief, disgruntled look. “No one was in the Common Room. I had more difficulty deciding which was your bed. I very much doubt that Longbottom would appreciate a visit from me in the middle of the night.” He smirked. “But then I saw your photos and your hideous Cannons t-shirt on top of your trunk and the mess on your desk and gathered this must be you,” he joked, and Harry sighed with relief, his eyes slipping closed again. “Should I leave?” Draco asked, disappointment tinging his tone. 

“No,” Harry cried, his eyes flying open to meet an amused grey gaze and a growing smile.

“Good. I didn’t want to,” Draco said, swinging his legs onto the bed and leaning against the headboard next to Harry. His legs were covered in a pair of grey striped pajama trousers, which matched the button-front top, his wand poking out of the breast pocket.

“You’re wearing pajamas,” Harry stated.

“Well spotted.” Draco smirked, and Harry glared at him. 

“I’ve just never seen you in pajamas before. It’s –” he paused, swallowing the last of the sleep from his voice, “– nice.”

Draco’s expression softened. “Yes, well, I decided to be comfortable this time. I assumed I’d still be more dignified than you, so it wouldn’t matter. And I was right,” he said, smirking again.

“What’s wrong with my pajamas?”

“They don’t match.”

“And that’s bad?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But they’re undignified?” Harry sought to clarify, grinning.

“This is making you exceedingly happy for some reason,” Draco mused, raising an eyebrow. Harry just grinned wider and slipped beneath the blankets. Shaking his head, Draco did the same, pulling the map into his lap. “This truly is incredible,” he said, examining the map, his face alight with admiration. “Completely unfair,” he added, “but incredible. Where did you get it?”

“Fred and George Weasley.” The names stuck in Harry’s throat. He’d spent the summer avoiding Fred’s name, and it was hard to think of one without the other. “My dad, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew made it when they were at Hogwarts.” Draco stiffened at Pettigrew’s name. “Fred and George nicked it from Filch’s office in their third year.”

He stared at Harry. “You’re lucky.”

“Because of the map?”

Draco made a noncommittal noise and nodded, looking away. “And to have family you can be proud of.” Harry stared at him sadly, wanting to ask a hundred questions but he was scared to know their answers.

Draco busied himself with the map once more, spreading it over both their laps and poring over each of the castle’s floors. His lips curled up on one side. “There’s Blaise and Theo,” he said, running a forefinger over his dorm. “This isn’t right, though.” He looked up at Harry. “It doesn’t have room boundaries.”

“I don’t think my dad or any of them ever wormed their way into the Slytherin Dungeons,” Harry replied. Draco smirked and turned back to the map, chuckling at Peeves’s erratic behavior on the second floor and then smoothing the creases so he could peer at Filch on the fifth floor. “Good lord, what is that man doing?” Draco wondered as Filch’s ink manifestation repeatedly paced a neat figure-eight.

While Draco watched the map, Harry watched him. Bright grey eyes swept over the parchment, wide and alert and excited, catching flecks of light every time they shifted. His face was unguarded in a way that was becoming increasingly familiar, and Harry ached, wishing Draco could always be like this and understanding why he couldn’t. 

As he turned to ask Harry a question, he only made it as far as, “What do you think –” before Harry wrapped an arm around his neck, spinning him into a kiss that was deep from the start and hopelessly dizzying. After a moment, surprise surged into enthusiasm, and Draco kissed back.

Pulling away, he gazed at Harry, bemused. “What about this got you hot?” he teased through jagged breaths. “Being startled awake? That’s the second time you’ve molested me after I’ve woken you.”

Fumbling with the buttons on Draco’s top, Harry didn’t miss the way Draco’s eyes widened as the first button tumbled open. “Actually, it was hearing you talk about Filch,” he said as earnestly as his giant grin allowed.

Draco arched an eyebrow. “I’ll be sure to mention him every time, then.” 

Harry scanned the expanse of pale skin as the last button surrendered and Draco’s shirt fell open. Even riddled with scars of Harry’s design, Draco was too fucking beautiful. Harry brushed the map from their laps onto the floor, sweeping the space between them and lowering his lips to Draco’s neck to mark a path from earlobe to collarbone. Mid-kiss, he abruptly stopped, groaning as he pulled away. “I take it back. I can’t get his face out of my head now.” 

Draco smirked. “I was worried for a moment you were some sort of pervert.”

“I still could be,” Harry returned.

“That remains to be seen,” he replied, eyes darkening and smirk firmly in place.

“Have I killed the mood?” Harry gazed down at him, praying the answer was no.

Draco’s expression softened as he stared back. He shook his head. Flinging the blankets off them, he drew Harry down against his lips, and then, in a feat of incomprehensible physics, flipped Harry onto his back without breaking the kiss, pulling away only to divest Harry of his t-shirt and pajama bottoms. He dragged his lips down Harry’s throat, tracing his tongue over his collarbone and dropping kisses down his sternum, his tongue periodically snaking over stretches of skin, leaving Harry shivering in its wake. As Draco moved south, his intent becoming clear, Harry had the staggering realization that had his stupid mouth not interfered that morning, this might have been the result. He shuddered under Draco’s touch, making a frenzied vow never to let responsibility stand in the way of his happiness again.

When Draco reached the band of Harry’s boxers, his eyes flickered upward, as if checking that everything was okay. Finding no argument, he skirted his hands over Harry’s stomach, his thumbs tracing a line from belly button to hips. He hooked his thumbs beneath the elastic, and Harry’s stomach fluttered in anticipation. _Have you done this before? I haven’t done this before_ , he worried as Draco tugged down his boxers, Harry lifting his hips to let it happen. He was well aware that his eyes were blown wide with equal measures of desire and panic, but then Draco’s lips were on his cock, first brushing against the tip in a kiss that was probably gentle but set his whole body aflame and then wrapped around the head, warm and wet, and Harry’s eyes snapped shut. 

Under the onslaught of sensation, he was frozen beneath Draco, his fingers twisted into the blankets as if a vice grip on the bedding might ground him. Harry’s toes curled as Draco’s lips tugged against his foreskin, and when his tongue crested beneath the head before he slid Harry down his throat, it punched a feral groan from his lips that made him exceptionally grateful for Privacy Charms. When he was capable of opening his eyes again, it was to find his own hands buried in Draco’s hair, throwing him back to his dream and every fantasy he’d had since then, only it was better than he’d ever imagined, and he couldn’t stay still. He thrust into Draco’s mouth, causing him to pause, and Harry almost unraveled as Draco’s soft, satisfied chuckle vibrated across his cock. Grasping fistfuls of blond hair tighter, Harry groaned and whined and writhed, Draco throwing his arm across Harry’s hips in an attempt to tame them. When Draco sucked tightly, his cheeks hollowing as he swallowed around him, Harry tipped over the brink, coming so hard that dark splotches danced at the corners of his vision, a string of expletives spilling out of his mouth.

When his vision stabilized, he gazed down at Draco, sending ragged breaths down his chest to where Draco was lifting his head and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking up at Harry, embarrassed. Harry yanked him upward into a kiss, realizing only after his tongue entered the equation that perhaps kissing a mouth you’ve just come inside was not normal post-coital behavior, but not caring because he could only faintly taste something that was not _Draco_. Regardless, Draco wasn’t stopping him, his kiss instead becoming deep and demanding, and _fuck_ if Harry didn’t want to give him everything he was asking for.

Harry prodded Draco onto his back, climbing on top and restraining a smile for the panicked expression on his face. He placed a series of deliberate kisses on the scars across his chest, followed by a brush of lips over a scar near his waist so faint that it had probably been written onto his skin years before Harry knew him. Then he kissed each of Draco’s hipbones, because they were there and beautiful, and because Harry was fucking terrified that once he got Draco out of his boxers, he wouldn’t know what to do. With shaking fingers, Harry pried Draco out of the last of his clothing, the material catching on his cock as he yanked. How had Draco’s fingers been so sure where his were flailing idiotically?

Harry barely even looked at Draco’s dick as it snapped into the open, the head swollen and flushed against his stomach. Instead, he flicked his eyes towards Draco’s, finding shameless desire rather than derision splashed across his face, and the idea that Draco wanted whatever awkward brand of romance he was offering was enough to expel Harry’s lingering embarrassment. He scattered dozens of small, delicate kisses everywhere his mouth could reach: belly button, hips, thighs – everywhere except where Draco most wanted his lips, and Draco squirmed beneath him in a way that was delightfully undignified.

When Harry teased his tongue along the dip of his groin, fingers wove themselves into Harry’s hair, grasping just shy of painful. “Harry,” Draco growled, and Harry lifted his head, grinning. He ran a hand over Draco’s cock, causing him to shudder, his eyes fluttering for a moment before boring into Harry’s with a plea that he felt powerless to deny.

Running his tongue along the underside of Draco’s cock, he felt it twitch against his tongue, and when Draco gasped in response, he wrapped his whole mouth him, sucking the length of his dick slowly. As he repeatedly curled his lips over the head, welcoming the soft pressure against his lips, he caught himself wondering why had they wasted years fighting and arguing and scheming when they could have been doing _this_. He knew the answer, but it didn’t stop him from wishing he could have seen Draco like this from the start. 

Had it not been for the way Draco’s face wrenched as he panted out little whimpers, or how fucking wild his eyes were when Harry glanced up, Harry might have worried he wasn’t doing it properly. As it was, Draco was quiet beneath him, not bucking or groaning or out of control the way Harry had been. _How is he not losing his damn mind?_ Harry thought. But as he tilted his head so he could take Draco deeper, Draco’s hands tightened in his hair, faintly pushing and pulling as Harry mouth sank around him, causing Harry’s own softened cock to twitch feebly, and Harry increased his pace. When Draco’s legs tightened enough to hinder Harry’s movements, he trailed his fingers up Draco’s thighs, smoothing the tension from them. Experimentally, he dragged his tongue against the head of Draco’s cock, and it pulsed beneath his tongue, spurring him on until Draco jolted completely rigid and threw his head to the side, beating into his mouth, Harry swallowing almost by instinct.

As Draco stilled and relaxed, Harry lifted his head. For a moment, Harry stared at him, breathing heavily, his pulse thrumming around his ears. Then he crawled back up for Draco to tear a wet kiss from him, open-mouthed and unashamed. When he pulled away, collapsing onto Draco’s shoulder, half of him felt bereft without Draco’s mouth covering his. He wanted to drag him back and kiss him indefinitely. The other half of him, however, needed only the feeling of Draco lying beside him, breathing heavily as his lungs caught up with his heart.

“That was fucking spectacular,” Draco finally offered into the silence.

Brushing his lips across Draco’s shoulder, he nodded. “I can’t imagine it gets much better than that, although I don’t have much to compare it to,” he added, embarrassed. Draco gave him a crooked look. “I’ve never really… with anyone…” Harry stumbled, hoping Draco would get the gist without needing him to admit it out loud.

“Not even with Ginevra?”

Harry chuckled at the use of Ginny’s full name. “We didn’t really have a lot of time for… that… while we were together.”

“That, as in sex?” Draco asked bluntly, amusement coloring his words.

“Yes,” Harry admitted, a little irritated. “Not all of us have your extensive experience.”

Draco arched an eyebrow. “And what _extensive_ experience would that be?”

Harry felt a blush creep up his face. “Well, weren’t you with Parkinson for all those years?”

Draco laughed and Harry’s blush deepened. “No, Harry. We’ve only ever been friends. Our parents had always encouraged that match, but to me, it was…” he pursed his lips, “…untenable, and after I confided in her, she gave up her designs on me.”

Harry considered this new information. Draco had only denied being with Parkinson, not anyone else. He glanced up at Draco, and as if he had cast a _legilimens_ , Draco smirked and said, “I’ve never been with anyone before you.”

Harry pulled back to look at him. “Really?”

Draco sighed with exasperation. “Yes, really.”

“I just thought you would have had a lot of opportunity.”

“There was a war,” he said dryly.

“Before the war, then. You must have had some opportunity.”

“I could say the same thing about you,” he retorted, raising an eyebrow. “Especially this year. You could have had anyone you wanted. Girls were throwing themselves at you, and you hardly seemed to notice.”

Harry felt himself blush again, and he frowned. “I didn’t want any of them. I didn’t really want anyone, to be honest. Well, until now, I guess,” he admitted, glancing up at Draco, whose eyes widened. Growing embarrassed, Harry looked away. Draco’s fingers found his in the silence.

When Harry looked back, Draco’s cheeks were pink, too, and a sly grin had broken across his face. “Especially now that you know how good sex is.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “It was adequate, I guess,” he said with a grin. Narrowing his eyes, Draco bit Harry’s shoulder, eliciting a yelp and a glare. Draco smirked at his handiwork.

His smirk faded, and he looked at Harry nervously. “Should we… go to sleep?” It was earlier than either of them was used to stumbling to bed. Harry nodded, uncertainty creeping into his veins. This time of night offered unwelcome dreams that clawed at his heart until he never wanted to close his eyes again. 

Anxiety pinched around Draco’s eyes. Harry took Draco’s hand in his own once more, offering what he hoped was a reassuring smile despite his own apprehension. Dragging them both under the covers, he extinguished the balls of light with a wave of his hand. He braced himself, waiting for the darkness to constrict around him, but to his relief, the sensation never came.

“This is so much easier,” Harry admitted in the dark. Draco didn’t say anything, but he squeezed Harry’s hand in gentle agreement. By the time Draco rolled over, pillowing his head on Harry’s chest, Harry felt as though he’d almost made his peace with the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to give a big ol' thank you to all the lovely people who left comments last time - it was amazing to get a range of feedback, suggestions, and personal experiences with writing, which gave me a lot of good ideas to consider and try while writing this chapter. And a huge, resounding thank you to everyone who has offered kudos and support in other ways. It's been completely unreal.


	16. Bad Dreams, Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to [thegrimmscully](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrimmscully/pseuds/thegrimmscully/works?fandom_id=136512) for the beta!

Draco was sitting on the ground, legs splayed around a patch of upturned earth. The trowel was cool in his hand, even as sweat trickled from cheek to bare shoulder. Grass tickled his thighs as he leaned forward. 

He pressed into the dirt. It was silent around him, and there was satisfaction in that.

“Draco.” The harsh tone sliced into the silence. Irritated, he ignored the interruption.

“Draco.” Closer and more insistent. He laid down the trowel. Muddied soil caked the crevices of his hands.

When he looked up, his mother was standing in front of him, robed in black. “Come inside, Draco.” The voice was familiar, but her face was flat, her eyes swallowed by shadow.

“Just a little longer,” he rasped.

He stood, now fully clothed, huddled in the corner of a mildewed shed with Fenrir Greyback. The man sharpened his nails on a knife. He leered at Draco, and Draco’s stomach turned. 

Then, he was in a darkened room. Someone’s wand flickered feebly. No, a match. He smelled smoke. A kettle hissed.

He sat in the parlor, clutching a cup of tea. Cream-colored furniture was doused in darkness by shuttered windows, the air laced with fear. He was not alone.

A man was perched on the edge of the hearth, his bare feet filthy. “Do it, Draco,” he goaded, his voice imbued with unshed laughter.

Draco didn’t move. His veins were ice. 

“Set down your tea, Draco, and do it.” The tea was stone cold. He stared at dirty toes.

“ _Crucio_.” His father thrashed on the floor between them. A gurgling scream ripped between gritted teeth. Draco clenched his jaw. The noise muted. 

He looked between his hands. His tea writhed with maggots. It shattered on the floor, and the screaming stopped.

He ran. 

He was walking under turbulent clouds, coursing a path lined by gnarled, leafless trees. Branches twisted, obscuring the light. Wind whispered across his skin.

Then, he was striding over brittle grass, tinged brown with decay. Hogwarts loomed in the distance. His toes stung with cold. A worn boot sheathed his left foot, the other exposed. He dragged bare skin through a fine layer of snow.

He paused in the corridor, inspecting a familiar wooden door. His throat knotted.

The door opened, and light sung from high cathedral windows. Towers of discarded objects hummed as they swayed. Trepidation gripped him where he stood.

Harry waded through the aisle, watching Draco. He murmured something, but Draco didn’t recognize the words. Smiling, he wove through a kingdom of refuse, disappearing after a final green glance. Draco ached to follow him.

Careening towers became fiery ropes. They consumed daylight. They consumed everything. Draco called out a warning, but his mouth didn’t open. 

“Hey.” A whisper. A suit of armor guarded the door.

Flames warped into beasts with blinding faces, and Harry was swallowed in the blaze. Draco couldn’t move.

“Hey.” Hushed and frantic. Suits of armor lined the doorway, speaking in unison.

Harry’s skin melted in front of him. The door swung shut. He stretched for the knob, but it dissolved against his fingers. When he looked down, his palms were stained with blood, the lines rusted red.

A suit of armor shoved him. “Hey.” The armor plating was warm and soft. The floor crumbled beneath him.

His eyes snapped open, his heart pounding through his chest.

He blinked.

Darkness swarmed around him, heavy and suffocating. He couldn’t see. His breaths were sharp, but the shaking had stopped, leaving his shoulder cold and bare. A shadow hovered at his periphery, its blurred edges nonsensical. When he dragged his palms across his eyes, they came away wet. Inches from his face, he could now identify each trembling finger, pale even in the dark. His hands were clean.

A figure swam into view. Draco blinked. The shaded eyes grew greener, carrying with them the scent of autumn, and relief struck him so forcefully that he shook with it. Harry was whole, his eyes brimming with concern as he raised a finger to his lips, motioning for silence. The image shimmered. Draco dashed away the tears. Warm solid fingers found his, and he held on tightly, anchoring himself to reality. 

Brushing damp hair from Draco’s forehead, Harry murmured soft soothing sounds, barely audible as the room reverberated with Draco’s desperation for air.

“Not this again,” a voice grumbled outside the bed hangings. Draco’s eyes widened. Harry squeezed his fingers gently, motioning once more for him to be quiet.

“Shh,” someone else admonished.

“Should we… should we check that he’s all right?” Draco recognized Longbottom’s voice.

The details stumbled into place. Gryffindor Tower was listening to him sob. His gasping intensified, and Harry stroked his hair again.

“Harry?” A new voice. The Weasel. “Are you –” He paused. “Is everything all right in there?” Draco curled his head into Harry’s lap, struggling to swallow his sobs.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” Harry’s voice trembled. “Sorry,” he added, sucking in a deep breath.

“Okay,” Weasley replied, sounding unconvinced. “I guess… just let us know if you need anything.”

“No, I’m fine,” Harry stuttered before casting Privacy Charms, cutting off a renewed wave of grumbling. Draco’s ears buzzed in the sudden silence, the two-way Charm isolating sound on each side of the curtain. Alone now, every stifled sob bubbled to the surface, and Draco was gasping again. Harry pulled him into his arms. 

Draco scrubbed angrily at his face. _Why can’t I stop crying?_

“You’re safe,” Harry whispered, running his fingers across Draco’s scalp.

“I’m sorry,” Draco was sobbing before he could stop himself. “I’m sorry.” He said it again and again, letting it spill across his tongue as if it could possibly absolve him.

Harry held him tightly, repeating _it’s okay_ like a mantra, his eyes wide but his arm warm and secure across Draco’s back. Eyes raw, Draco closed them against the burn and wiped away the last of his tears, leaving his face hot and swollen. He crumpled against Harry’s chest, unraveling into the fingers carding through his hair. His gasps subsided to a soft, rolling stream, hitching only occasionally, and with the steady drum of Harry’s heart beneath his ear, he drifted to sleep.

* * *

Stirring hours later with the scent of woodstoves and apples spinning through his head, Draco blinked against the fuzzy predawn light. He turned to look at Harry, cringing as his cheek tugged unpleasantly, either sweat or tears – he’d rather not know which – having created a seal between their skin. Harry lay pinned beneath Draco, and the resigned exhaustion in his eyes made Draco sure he’d been awake for hours. Brushing his chin over a patch of sparse chest hair, a wave of mortification swept over Draco as he recalled the details leading to this moment.

He shuffled to the edge of the bed, and Harry’s gaze lingered on his back, his curiosity tingling everywhere it touched as if it were its own brand of magic. He shivered. Gryffindor Tower, it turned out, was just as frigid as the Slytherin Dungeons, despite not being underneath a fucking lake, but the chill hadn’t touched him while they were pressed together in the dark; Harry radiated warmth as if Heating Charms flowed alongside blood in his veins. Peeling back the curtain, he welcomed the pale light. A spectrum of blue smeared the sky, with golds streaking the horizon. Splashes of orange and pink trimmed the clouds. As he scanned the sky, trying to detect where blue stopped and gold began, he smiled grimly, grateful for imminent daylight.

Exhaling a soft wisp of air, he located his wand on the floor and lifted his legs onto the bed, closing the scarlet hangings behind him and casting a fresh wave of Privacy Charms. He leaned back against the headboard, his arm grazing Harry’s, before reaching deep and gathering the mental fortitude to face him. When he did, Harry was regarding him cautiously.

“You’re awake,” Draco began. _Stating the obvious. Excellent start._

“Well spotted,” Harry tried to tease, his lips twitching upward before tumbling into a frown.

“Did you sleep?” Draco asked, but he already knew the answer.

Harry hesitated, picking at a loose thread. He shook his head, and Draco’s jaw clenched, guilt pricking at him.

“Do you… want to talk about it?” Harry asked tentatively.

Meeting Harry’s concerned gaze, he shook his head, both in response to the question and to expel flashes of Fiendfyre devouring Harry. “I really don’t,” he finally said, sounding much calmer than he felt. Harry nodded, his expression soft and understanding with just a touch of pity that he thankfully didn’t voice, and they lapsed into silence once more.

“I _am_ very sorry,” Draco finally offered, his voice barely stronger than a whisper. 

Fussing with the blankets again, Harry winced. “I think… I think we should agree not to apologize to each other.”

The words were carefully measured, and Draco considered them for a moment, feeling both liberated and perturbed by the idea of no apologies. “What if one of us –” he paused, “– _you_ ,” he corrected, his lips quirking upward as he glanced at Harry, “acts like a complete arse?”

Harry’s hands stilled, and he looked up at Draco, his serious expression softening. “If _you_ act like an arse, then apologies are welcome,” Harry relented. “But not for anything to do with the war. Or our, er, history.”

“And if they’re one and the same?” Draco countered cheekily despite wanting a serious response. Harry crooked an eyebrow at him. “It’s not inconceivable that I –” he glanced at Harry, smirking, “– _you_ ,” he corrected, “might be an arse _now_ about things that happened _then._ ”

Harry rolled his eyes, attempting not to smile. “Fine. No apologies for past misdeeds, but we can apologize for any present… arseholery. Agreed?”

Smiling at Harry’s phrasing, he pretended to deliberate before nodding. “I’ll agree to those terms.”

Harry shook his head. “You are hard work.” Warm toes nudged his beneath the blankets.

“You know, I believe I have heard that before,” Draco told him wryly, earning a firmer shove from fingers that moments later twisted comfortably into his own.

Harry yawned, his eyes squeezing shut and his hand gripping Draco’s with the strength of it.

“Do you want to get some sleep?” Draco asked, his tone far more affectionate than teasing.

Harry shrugged. “I’m not sure I’d be able to at this point.”

Draco appraised him. Dark, sleepless smudges puffed beneath his eyes. To muffled protests, he yanked Harry’s pillow from beneath him and arranged it behind his own back before drawing Harry onto his chest. After a few moments, Harry relaxed, running absent fingertips over Draco’s curse scars.

He had watched Harry react to his scars twice now. That first night, when Harry had stripped off his sweater, he had expected a surge of pity, perhaps chased by a stuttered apology – had _resigned_ himself to that reaction – but as usual, Harry surprised him. Instead, his regret had been suffused with desire, making it palatable and disarming all at once. He had bowed his head to kiss each scar reverently, looking at Draco’s body as if every part of him, scars and Mark included, was equally beautiful, and Draco had momentarily forgotten how to breathe. Yet even under Harry’s reverent gaze, he had been bracing for the inevitable apology. 

Now that he could be sure none was forthcoming, Harry’s fingertips felt comforting as they traced each scar, and he shivered as warm lips brushed the nearest one. “Harry?” Draco’s voice shook. Curious eyes met his. “Can we –” he stopped, struggling to find the right phrasing. “Is gratitude still permissible?” he tried again, silently cursing his stilted words.

Harry raised an eyebrow, but he nodded anyway, offering a crinkle-eyed smile that made Draco’s heart beat too quickly. 

Brushing his thumb over Harry’s forehead, Draco traced the jagged lightning ridges. It had happened quietly, but that third version of Potter, the one he had found equal parts frustrating and fascinating at the start of term, had eclipsed every other version until all their incongruous edges had blurred into the Harry beneath his fingertips. 

This Harry – the one who had slashed him near to death and then kissed the scars, who teased as naturally as he smiled, which was most of the time when Draco was with him, whose glasses were as stubborn as he was, whose magic was a flood, warm and powerful even without a wand, who was proud of his father’s map, who had saved him in more ways than he wanted to admit – this was his Harry, built from a million details that made no sense until they were all strung together. 

This Harry – _his Harry_ – had made Hogwarts feel like home again, when Draco was sure the war had taken that from him, too. 

Draco’s fingers slid down Harry’s temple, burrowing in sleep-messy curls at the nape of his neck. “Thank you,” he murmured, and green eyes burned so intensely into his that he nearly choked under the weight.

Harry leaned up, their noses grazing, and Draco both heard and felt his whispered _thank you_ as it danced across his skin. Closing the last breath of space between them, Draco captured Harry’s lips in a kiss that made him feel raw and muddled and like the capacity for sensible thought had permanently escaped him. He splayed a hand over Harry’s ribs, ignoring the idiotically soppy idea that his fingers fit perfectly, feeling that whatever horrors had plagued him a year ago, last night, _any_ night, and whatever madness the rising sun carried that morning, none of it could touch him while Harry held him like this. He trailed his fingers over Harry’s stomach, pressing lightly just below his hipbone, and Harry shivered into the touch, breathing that small guttural sound that drove Draco fucking wild every time. Stifling a groan of his own, Draco basked in silent satisfaction, filing the discovery of Harry’s hipbone predilection for future exploration.

Harry deepened the kiss, scrambling higher in a flutter of fingertips and not-quite-painful grasps, their tongues tangling until they were both breathless with it. Draco allowed himself to disintegrate beneath frantic hands, desperate for whatever contact Harry wanted to offer, because suddenly their current configuration was nowhere near enough; he needed to touch Harry _everywhere_. He tugged Harry on top of him, shuddering as his cock dragged across the flat of Harry’s stomach, and Harry wasn’t far behind, his breath hitching into the crook of Draco’s neck, his half-hard cock stiffening rapidly. Knees falling on either side of Draco, Harry pitched upward, groaning appreciatively as they slid together, and Draco bit back his own reaction. He slammed his eyes shut and mapped Harry’s neck beneath his tongue, tasting orchards and winter strolls through woods, diluted by the sting of salt. He couldn’t help but wonder if his own tears had been the culprit, but it didn’t really matter except for the twin waves of gratitude and guilt repeatedly crashing through his chest.

Harry broke away, “This okay?” spilling from his lips in a breathless rush. His face was a mess of uncertainty and desire, his hips rocking slowly as though he had tried to suspend their movement with limited success. “I don’t want to… after you just –” he managed to gasp out before Draco silenced him with his mouth, hoping to convey his trust and _need_ in strokes of his tongue rather than inadequate words. The irony underscoring Harry’s question didn’t escape him, but their current inelegant rutting and quiet _thank you_ s felt eons away from their tension-fueled lakeshore fumbling. Pulling back, Draco smiled. He wanted this with Harry, even if he was a still a bit unclear on the exact definition of _this_. Harry watched him, his eyes glinting with confusion, and shaking his head, Draco swept Harry back into a kiss, feeling a return smile bloom against his lips. Merlin, even when Harry didn’t know the reason, he reciprocated Draco’s smiles. It filled him with affection so full and all-consuming that he thought he might burst as it swelled within him. 

Craving more finesse than this position afforded, Draco spun them onto their sides amidst a jumble of legs and an exhaled _I want you_ that escaped from his own lips. Green eyes fastened onto his as he reached between them, smearing a sticky bead of pre-cum over the tip of Harry’s cock. Without looking away, Harry swallowed dryly, pushing gently into Draco’s hand like he was offering himself up, and it was so fucking intimate, Draco wasn’t sure if he could keep his eyes open. But surprisingly, it was Harry who folded first, his eyes drifting shut when Draco wrapped long, thin fingers around the shaft. He stroked once with a loose fist, and Harry shuddered under his touch. When Draco aligned their hips so he could encircle them both at once, Harry’s eyes shot open, their intensity sending warmth spiraling throughout Draco’s body.

And truly, the image of their cocks pressed together in his hand, Harry’s flushed darker than his, was so wonderfully filthy that it nearly undid him, despite having hardly been touched. He swallowed down the image, focusing instead on Harry’s face, which was beautifully wrecked, and slowly teased his hand over both of them. An unsteady breath escaped his lips, and Harry issued a rough, low groan in response. Covering Draco’s hand with one of his own to quicken the pace, he set a rhythm that had him writhing and arching, and Draco was barely able to hold on. As Harry rode erratically into Draco’s fist, his tongue darted out, swiping over his bottom lip, and it was so unintentionally erotic that Draco was teetering on the edge in seconds. After just a few more quick jerks, Harry lost all remnants of his tenuous control, shooting messily between their fingers, and Draco brought their lips together, drinking soft moans from the tip of Harry’s tongue. It only took a few more cum-slicked strokes before his own control tumbled to the floor next to Harry’s. His hand went slack, and Harry carried him over the brink, tearing his orgasm from him with firm, driving strokes until they were trading shattered breaths across shaking lips.

Draco threw an arm over his face and collapsed onto the mattress in a boneless heap, sticky, messy, and utterly content; he didn’t resurface until his heart had resumed a reasonable pace some minutes later. He cast a sideways glance at Harry, whose eyes flicked towards the wayward strands of white painting the bedsheets between them. Harry’s smile hovered somewhere between proud and sheepish, and when he whispered a quiet, “Sorry,” he sounded anything but.

Feeling stupidly pleased about their mess as well, Draco couldn’t suppress a smirk. “Does this scenario fall under the umbrella of acceptable apologies?”

Harry chuckled lightly, but offered no other response except to prop himself on his elbows and wandlessly vanish all evidence of their indiscretion. He aimed a second _scourgify_ over Draco’s torso, his magic a burst of warmth, before casting one on himself and slumping back down to the mattress. His eyes slipped closed.

“You want to go to sleep _now_?” Draco asked, feeling for Harry’s hand on the mattress between them and hooking their little fingers together. It was undeniably daytime now, the sun fully risen and pouring into the dormitory.

Harry shook his head. “I have to get up.” His eyes remained closed. “I have to learn Transfiguration by the time class starts,” he groaned.

“Ah, you also heard about the pop quiz?”

“Yes, it’s bollocks,” he stated, his eyes firmly shut.

“So skip.”

Harry’s forehead crinkled, his little finger curling around Draco’s. “Can’t.”

Draco smirked. “You could.”

“Shouldn’t,” Harry responded, sighing. “You’re a terrible influence.” He rolled over, cradling his head on Draco’s shoulder.

Draco snorted. “I never claimed to be otherwise.” He ran an absent hand through Harry’s hair, a half-smile tugging at his lips as Harry leaned into the touch. “If you’re planning to get up, opening your eyes might be a start.”

Harry cracked one eye open, an exhibition of lethargy that had Draco instantly wallowing in guilt for his regrettable episode.

“You could skive off Charms this afternoon and nap instead,” Draco suggested gently, as if such an offer were a form of restitution. 

“Only if you skive with me,” Harry replied, peering at Draco through one hopeful eye.

“I doubt much napping would get done in that case.”

Opening both eyes this time, Harry inspected Draco. “You just don’t want to get caught skipping.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “It’s one thing for you to skip, but they’d probably kick me out if they caught me doing it,” he said, knowing that Harry would abhor the implication that his name evoked special treatment. “Especially if they caught me _in flagrante delicto_ with the Golden Boy,” he finished, and Harry pulled a face. Rankling him really was too easy.

Harry sighed. “I need to go to Charms anyway. Show Flitwick I’m not a complete fool.”

Draco snorted, about to indicate that was a lost cause when Harry smirked and said, “Yes, I’m aware that I _am_ a complete fool. No need to point it out.” Draco closed his mouth, and Harry looked smug. Was he really so predictable?

“You have no idea how much easier it was to produce a proper Undetectable Extension Charm once I had stopped convincing myself you hated me,” Harry continued, absentmindedly outlining one of Draco’s ribs.

“That’s ridiculous,” Draco scoffed. “Why would you imagine I hated you? I thought I’d been unwittingly obvious about the whole thing. Even my roommates figured it out.” He glanced down at Harry, suddenly aware that he hadn’t yet been apprised of that particular development.

Harry briefly raised an eyebrow but otherwise glossed over Draco’s admission. “Well, I’d hoped. Occasionally. But honestly, you’re mental if you thought I’d work it out. I figured that you’d decided my bumbling idiocy was amusing at best, and therefore to tolerate me.”

Draco laughed. “Well, yes. That’s all very true. And truer still that I’m only using you right now,” he added, trailing his fingers lazily down Harry’s arm.

“Oh, really? And what for?” Harry asked dryly, twining their hands together.

“Warmth, mostly.” Draco slid cold, bare feet onto Harry’s calves, causing him to shudder. “But there are some other uses, too,” he added, running his hand across Harry’s hip. He faltered just shy of the spot that had prompted such an emphatic response earlier and frowned. “You’re wrong, you know.”

“I am?” Harry asked, amused.

“Yes, frequently,” Draco teased.

Harry rolled his eyes, grinning. “What about in particular, then?”

“I do know how much easier it is to perform when you’re not anxious.” Harry looked intently at him, all traces of amusement gone. “I –” Draco’s voice failed him. “Last year –” he tried again, clearing his throat. “I couldn’t do things more often than was really healthy considering I was one mistake away from –” Harry squeezed his hand. “Well. I’m quite intimately familiar with that sort of frustration.” Harry’s eyes teemed with hundreds of unasked questions, but his mouth remained shut, and Draco felt so grateful he could have kissed him. So he did, darting over to brush Harry’s lips with his own.

“You’re really not encouraging me to get up, and I need to if I want Hermione to teach me Transfiguration,” Harry grumbled, a sentiment belied by legs that became decidedly more tangled with Draco’s. The dormitory had come alive with the sounds of waking eighth year Gryffindor boys, which apparently included more slamming of wardrobe doors and grousing than in the Slytherin dormitories. 

Rolling Harry over, Draco kissed his collarbone. “Stay,” he murmured against Harry’s neck. “I’ll teach you.”

Harry laughed. “Why do I feel like your version of education would involve far more snogging than Hermione’s or McGonagall’s?”

Draco withdrew from Harry. “Why must you insist on mentioning the faculty and staff while I’m kissing you?”

Sitting up, Harry laughed. He ran a hand through his hair, unconsciously tousling the mess until he looked like a deranged porcupine. Then, dipping over the edge of the bed, he emerged with a pile of their clothing, shaking out his own mismatched pajamas onto his lap before dumping the remainder next to Draco. He tugged on his t-shirt, displacing his glasses in the process, and as he adjusted them, he asked, “Speaking of Hermione, what did you say to her yesterday?”

Draco stiffened defensively. “Why?” he asked.

“She won’t tell Ron, and it’s driving him crazy,” Harry replied, smirking. “I told him I’d ask.”

Buttoning his pajama top, Draco laughed. “It’s bothering Weasley? Excellent. Why won’t she tell him?”

“She says it’s between the two of you.” He paused. “Did you apologize?” he asked earnestly.

“I did, yes.” He couldn’t banish the defensive edge from his voice. “Why?”

“Nothing. I’m just pr –”

“If you say you’re proud of me, I’ll _Langlock_ you. I swear I will,” Draco cut in, his eyes narrowed and his wand outstretched but his lips pulled into a small smile.

Harry stalled a moment before finishing. “Profane.”

“Profane?”

“It was the first word I could think of.”

Draco shook his head with mock disappointment and lowered his wand. “You really should get to breakfast if your brain moves this slowly without caffeine.” He pulled on his pajama bottoms. “And you are profane,” he added, smirking.

“So, are you going to tell me what you said?” Harry asked, emerging red-faced from beneath the bed. He set his Transfiguration notes on the rumpled sheets.

“Are you going to tell Weasley?” Draco countered.

Harry considered this for a moment. “Probably,” he admitted.

“Then, no. I’d like to prolong Weasley’s disappointment.”

“What if I promise not to tell him?” Harry inquired, tilting his head to the side.

“Still no.”

“What? Why?” Harry’s mouth pulled downward into a pout.

“Granger’s right. It’s between her and me. Plus, you look far too eager,” Draco said, thumbing through Harry’s notes.

“Doesn’t being your –” Harry faltered for a moment, “– your boyfriend entitle me to privileges?”

Draco’s heart skipped a beat. He looked up, raising an eyebrow. “I thought we went through those quite thoroughly last night. And this morning.”

With a glint of determination in his eyes, Harry leapt on top of Draco, deftly straddling and kissing him. When he pulled away, his eyes were locked onto Draco’s. _So fucking green_ , Draco thought. 

“Please?” Harry breathed, and Draco almost caved.

“Still no.” Harry’s expression collapsed into a scowl, and he climbed off Draco’s lap. “You and Weasley can weather the disappointment together,” Draco said with smug satisfaction.

Harry sighed. “It was worth a shot.”

Draco dug out Harry’s folded invisibility cloak. “So, how are we going to do this?”

Harry frowned. “Er, well, I have to change my clothes and stuff. Maybe I could just signal when the coast is clear, and you can leave using the cloak again. You could return it later today.” He shrugged, then winced. “You might have to wait to follow someone out, though.” He thought for a moment. “Or I could let you out myself before I change clothes,” he suggested.

Draco shook his head. “No, it’s fine. I got myself in here. If I can’t outwit a handful of sleepy Gryffindors, I have no right calling myself a Slytherin.” He was mainly excited to use the cloak again.

Harry snorted and slipped out from the curtains, letting them fall closed behind him, and Draco heard him greet his dormmates. Weasley sounded concerned and Finnigan was grumpy, both of which Draco supposed were his fault, but he pushed down his guilt in favor of flipping through Harry’s notes. He strained his eyes to decipher the atrocious handwriting while Harry exchanged occasional pleasantries and contributed to the excessive wardrobe slamming. At one point, Weasley offered to wait for Harry, but Harry shooed him along to meet Granger, telling him he’d meet them both at the Great Hall. Draco tuned out the rest, focusing instead on the drawings and comments that peppered Harry’s notes. When he found himself on a page decorated by a doodled hedgehog, Draco couldn’t help but snort. If this was the state of Harry’s Transfiguration notes, it wasn’t any wonder he was worried about passing the quiz.

Harry poked his head back in, now dressed in jeans and a hole-ridden sweater with a set of robes bundled in his arms. “Coast is clear,” he indicated.

“You’re not even going to pretend to wear your uniform under your robes?”

“Nope,” Harry said, grinning. “Leave whenever you want. They’re all gone now. I’ve got to go make myself presentable.” He shook the shabby robes in his arms, and Draco rolled his eyes.

Harry started to leave, but Draco called out to him. “Oh, and Harry?” Harry glanced back at the bed. Draco held up the cloak. “I’m not returning this until I get my scarf back,” he said cheekily. 

Harry’s look of surprise spread into a grin. “Such a Slytherin,” he said, shaking his head and disappearing into the bathroom.

His eyes drawn back to the doodles on Harry’s notes, Draco impulsively conjured a quill, determined to make his own mark. In small neat script, he added a note beneath the hedgehog. _Really, Potter? Your hair is more fearsome than this pathetic hedgehog…_

Grinning, he closed Harry’s notes, and ripped open the curtains, stepping barefooted onto the carpet. He dug for his slippers beneath the bed.

Too absorbed in his own cleverness, he hadn’t heard anyone reenter the room, but as small gasp sounded behind him, Draco spun to find the dorm decidedly not empty. Stunned hazel eyes stared into his, and he stood frozen for a moment, panic cascading through his chest, before mustering as much dignity as he was capable of under the circumstances. Jerking his head in a stiff nod, he whipped the cloak around his shoulders, disappearing from the neck down. “Longbottom,” he greeted, pulling the cloak over his head. Not keen on waiting around for Longbottom to regain his ability to speak, he hurried down the stairs and out of Gryffindor Tower, hoping Harry could contain this before it got out of hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was brought to you by A Fuckton of Time (TM), an overabundance of Harry Potter soundtrack songs, and Johnny Cash's version of Hurt on repeat.
> 
> Thank you all for your nods of encouragement - I cannot overstate how thankful I am for the continual support I've gotten here at AO3. You all rock. : )


	17. Discretion, Pt. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, [Ykmust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ykmust/pseuds/Ykmust), for such a wonderful dialogue idea. I had fun implementing it. : )
> 
> A huge thank you to [thegrimmscully](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegrimmscully/pseuds/thegrimmscully) for all of their helpful suggestions on this chapter, and for trying to keep me safe from grammar-induced embarrassment. If any errors remain, they are all mine.

It had been a miserable night. The kicking had woken Harry first, one cold heel punctuating a pleasant dream of playing seeker for a team of Swedish Short-Snouts, but once he’d been awake, the whimpering would have kept him alert even if he’d wanted to roll over and close his eyes again. He had tried waking Draco, first with gentle caresses, and then, when the task proved damn near impossible, with rougher shakes and soft interjections. Draco’s nightmare seemed to thrive from the contact, though, his sobs growing louder and his kicks becoming more well directed as Harry’s intervention escalated.

Just enough time had elapsed since Draco had climbed into Harry’s bed that the Privacy Charms had worn off, and hearing his dormmates stirring mutinously, Harry hadn’t risked scrounging his wand from the floor. He had considered attempting the spells wandlessly, but his panic-drenched, middle-of-the-night wandless magic was far more likely to result in flaming curtains than the intended Privacy Charms. Since fire hadn’t seemed like a sensible response to Draco’s nightmare, he’d settled for continuous shoulder prodding and whispered _hey_ s, praying his dormmates wouldn’t hear and grow suspicious.

Their situation was volatile, like a first-year practicing Hover Charms on a wasp hive – exciting right up to the point it collapsed in an angry swarm of pain and discomfort. It was only a matter of time before someone with a large mouth and a misguided concept of the word discretion discovered their relationship. An optimistic part of Harry thought that there were probably worse outcomes. Being open about their relationship would be simpler than sneaking around at night and hiding behind Privacy Charms. Perhaps the public would even be reasonable. But the more pragmatic part of him knew from experience that although publicity could dissipate quickly, the aftermath would sting for months. And it would be far worse for Draco. As Draco had hyperventilated on his lap, he’d come to the conclusion that he couldn’t let that happen. After quelling his dormmates’ complaints, he had leaned over the edge of the bed and mustered the strength to _accio_ his wand.

Harry would have eaten Dobby’s snitch socks had anyone told him that concealing Draco would be the simple portion of the night. Draco didn’t describe the sort of demons which had warranted that level of violent thrashing, and Harry hadn’t asked, but Draco’s nightmare had left him wrecked and shivering in Harry’s arms. The minutes he had spent doling out _I’m sorry_ s as if they were Honeydukes chocolates became an eternity. Each sobbed apology tore into Harry, until he felt just as shredded and raw as Draco looked when he finally passed out in a puddle of tears on Harry’s chest. And that hadn’t been the whole of it. He had continued to shiver and shake in his sleep, occasionally crying out or clinging with fists so tight that they clenched at Harry’s heart, too. It occurred to him that Draco might go through this on a regular basis, and while he did, as well, it was decidedly more unmanageable to watch it happen to Draco than to suffer it himself. Harry hadn’t been able to sleep while Draco’s apologies still rang through his ears and the evidence of his distress dried on his chest. 

He had spent the remainder of the night contemplating the unspoken details of Draco’s midnight apologies until the very idea made him feel sick to his stomach. He wanted to tell Draco that he’d never require an apology from him again, that he became even more beautiful as he slept, even when he’d been crying, that he wanted to spend Christmas together, and New Year’s, too, but he instead opted for rubbing circles between Draco’s shoulder blades in time with the tiny snores drifting out of his mouth.

The words resurfaced once Draco had stirred, and to his relief, Draco agreed almost immediately to a policy of no apologies. But as the other ideas had twisted eagerly on his tongue, Draco had silenced him with a whispered _thank you_ that was as gentle as it was intense. Maybe it was his exhaustion-addled hearing, but as he returned the sentiment, he had gotten the impression that Draco was offering more than gratitude, and Harry had made it a personal rule to accept whatever Draco wanted to offer him. Everything else, including sleep, could wait.

Hours later when he wandered down to the Great Hall in a daze, his limbs were still stiff and heavy with fatigue. He all but stumbled into the seat across from Ron and Hermione and began heaping impractical volumes of porridge into a bowl.

“Morning,” he said, stifling a yawn. Hermione looked up from her Transfiguration notes long enough to take in the bags beneath his eyes and pass him a steaming mug with a sympathetic smile.

As Harry sipped his coffee, Ron stared at him for a moment, his knife idly stroking the air rather than his slice of toast. When he looked away and began applying jam with more concern than the task really called for, Harry felt a prick of irritation.

“What is it?” Harry asked with a resigned sigh, realizing that he wasn’t exactly being fair but lacking the energy for tactfulness anyway.

Ron abandoned his toast, his voice dropping low. “Are you okay, mate?”

“I’m fine,” Harry replied shortly. Ron and Hermione exchanged a dubious look, and taking a deep breath, Harry rubbed his forehead and tried again. “Er. Sorry about last night.”

“You don’t have to apologize. It’s just –” Ron paused and Hermione nodded encouragingly. “Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but after years of hearing your nightmares, I know what you sound like when you… cry.” He grimaced apologetically. Harry set down his spoon, chewing the inside of his lip and waiting for the other shoe to drop. “That didn’t sound like you last night.”

Harry winced. “That’s because it wasn’t.”

“Is it always that bad?” Ron asked, picking at his toast with feigned nonchalance. Hermione, however, cast aside all pretenses and scrutinized Harry intensely over her notes.

Sighing, Harry shrugged. “We’ve only spent a few nights together.” He experimentally turned over a spoonful of porridge. It was runnier than he liked. “But we started spending nights at the lake because neither of us wanted to deal with that anymore.”

“It was worse than yours.” Ron frowned. “Well, maybe not worse, but… different.” He crammed half the slice of toast into his mouth. “And not to be rude, but yours are probably the worst I’ve heard,” he said through a mouthful of bread and jam. “Rightfully so,” he added when Harry raised an eyebrow. “It just… it almost made me feel bad for him, ferret that he is.” Beneath the table, Hermione reached for something next to her, and Harry would have bet his Firebolt that it was Ron’s knee.

A rush of warm affection swelled through him. After the previous morning’s outburst, a civil relationship between Ron and Draco hadn’t seemed like a possibility, but he suddenly found himself cautiously optimistic. He buried his relief in a spoonful of porridge. “I’m sure he’d be pleased to hear that.”

Ron blanched. “You’re not going to tell him I said that, are you?”

“Of course not. But it was worth it for the look on your face.” 

Ron swallowed thickly and narrowed his eyes. “Somehow it still feels like you’re feeding information to the enemy.”

“He’s not the _enemy_ ,” Hermione said, pursing her lips.

“Anymore,” Ron muttered darkly.

She set down her notes. “He never was.” Harry and Ron both fixed her with incredulous looks. She sighed. “Well, he never should have been.” 

“Maybe,” Ron replied. He frowned at his toast as if the crust had done something suspicious.

“The war forced him to grow up. Just like the rest of us.” She stared pointedly at Ron. “Most of us, anyway.”

Ron gaped at her. “You’re only saying that because you had some bizarre Slytherin-style heart-to-heart with him yesterday,” he argued, looking affronted, and curiously, Hermione blushed. “Which you still haven’t explained, by the way.”

“No luck on that, mate,” Harry told him with an apologetic smile. “I asked, and he said –” Harry paused, realizing the future of Draco and Ron’s relationship might be more promising if he didn’t repeat the exact words. “Well, he agreed with Hermione.”

Smiling complacently, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Bastard!” Ron hissed through his teeth.

Harry laughed. “If it makes you feel any better, he wouldn’t tell me either.” He glanced back at Hermione, surprised to find that her smile had become unexpectedly anxious. Harry furrowed his brow. “What’s wrong?” he asked, and she bit her lip.

“While we’re on the topic of my conversation with Draco,” – she pulled a copy of the Daily Prophet from her lap – “it seems it sparked some interest.” Harry didn’t need to unfold the paper to discover her meaning. The headline, _Death Eater Schemes Redemption via Golden Trio_ , blared across the top, centered over familiar side-by-side photographs. The first, a photo of Draco exiting the Death Eater trials with his mother, had been a favorite of the _Prophet_ ’s, perpetually printed as the centerpiece of any article that so much as mentioned his name. It had first run immediately following the trials – ironically, on Draco’s birthday – and for reasons Harry hadn’t understood, he’d stared at the drawn face and hollow eyes for too long, mesmerized by the way even the black-and-white newsprint was able to capture the transition from vacant to proud just before one defiant palm rose to block the image from view. Harry had eventually clipped out the picture and pressed it within the pages of his now-battered copy of _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore_.

Its counterpart was a photo of Harry, Ron, and Hermione draped smartly in dress robes and laughing on a balcony at a Ministry award ceremony reception. The night had been filled with tiny foods, sycophantic bureaucrats, and pointless conversations, which would have seemed frivolous enough until Harry had spotted Dolores Umbridge in pink twill robes and a simpering smile, mingling with the other guests. Harry had been livid that, far from being prosecuted, she had been invited to a celebration of people she’d sought to eliminate months prior. He had halted in place, choking on his anger, until Hermione had dragged him onto the balcony, where he’d had the privacy to tear into the entire event. Eventually, Ron had suggested they raid the Weasley pantry rather than eat “stuffy canapés provided by a government that believed tales spun by old toads,” and Harry had begun laughing at the absurdity of the whole thing. That’s when the photographer had snapped their picture.

So this had been the image shown to the world: the Golden Trio happily enjoying a party thrown by the Ministry. It had initially made Harry so angry he couldn’t see straight, until every other picture of him smiling had also been attributed to the Ministry’s benevolence, followed by a series of articles speculating about his romantic life and career aspirations, capped by article after article entertaining the deeper implications of his excursions to Diagon Alley or forays into Muggle London, at which point he’d stopped being capable of much emotion for any of it.

But for the first time in months, Harry found himself angry about the news again. They had chosen these photos with purpose, and even without the article, they painted a compelling dichotomy. Swallowing down the anger threatening to spill out, he scanned the article, unsurprisingly finding heaps of vitriol but nothing of substance. The only fact, pressed between lines of speculative drivel, was that Draco had approached their table at breakfast, subsequently leaving the hall with Hermione. A “first-hand witness” described her demeanor as “initially angry but smiling when she returned,” a circumstance attributed to the use of behavior-modifying spells, with a heavy nod and wink at the Imperius Curse. The author closed the article with the vaguely threatening: “Beware Harry Potter; you’ll be next,” after begging the reader not to forget “the crimes Draco had committed as a servant of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.”

Blood pounding in his forehead, Harry scanned for the byline. Rita bloody Skeeter. Of course.

He closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose. When he opened them again, Ron looked him over, taking in his harassed expression. He glanced regretfully at the scone he’d just painstakingly buttered before placing it on the corner of Harry’s plate with a smile of solidarity. Eying the scone, Harry gave a pathetic smile back. Hermione watched him cautiously.

“There’s really nothing to do for it, is there?” Harry finally said, stamping down his righteous indignation. He pushed the newspaper back towards her.

Hermione shook her head sadly. “Short of announcing that Rita Skeeter is an unregistered Animagus, no. And it’s not as if we have proof that she was actually inside Hogwarts yesterday morning.” Her eyes glinted with frustration. “Although, I’d really like to know how she’s getting her information if she’s not sneaking into the school.”

“It’s probably best to let it run its course,” Ron said, nodding wisely as he buttered a new scone.

That wasn’t a particularly appealing option at the moment, but as Harry couldn’t think of another, he bit into the pity scone with vindictive vigor. It melted into his mouth in a buttery blend of perfection, and he made a noise of contentment. Ron raised his replacement scone in cheers.

Ginny slid into the seat next to Harry with a tired thud and a grumpy expression, immediately snatching a slice of bacon from Ron’s plate and stuffing it into her mouth. 

“Oi!” Ron exclaimed, spraying bits of scone everywhere.

She swallowed. “What? It’s not like you were eating it,” she argued, and Ron glowered, grabbing several more slices of bacon off the tray. She tilted her head to read the _Prophet_ headline before snorting. “Are they still publishing this rubbish?” she said, eying Harry’s scone. 

“Apparently,” Harry replied, twisting it away from her twitching fingertips, and she grinned at him. He set the tray of scones in front of her.

“Thanks,” she replied around a mouthful of food, and he took another bite before feeling the strange prickling sensation of being watched. Turning, he found Professor McGonagall’s intimidating figure looming behind him.

“Mr. Potter,” she began, her tone already stern, and Harry’s mind spun anxiously through the long list of school rules he had broken this semester. “I see that you’ve neglected to sign up for career consultation, even though the deadline was Monday. Shall I interpret your lack of communication as your intention to enroll in Auror training next year?”

He swallowed hastily, choking in the process. McGonagall’s nostrils flared impatiently, but she waited while Hermione cast an _anapneo_ and Harry took a huge gulp of pumpkin juice.

“Er. I haven’t actually decided yet,” he finally coughed out. 

“I see,” McGonagall replied. “And, given that, you didn’t see fit to schedule an appointment to discuss your options?”

“Er, I thought I’d give it a real think on my own before coming to talk with you about it…” He trailed off, shrinking under the weight of her gaze.

McGonagall’s eyebrow twitched, disappointment rolling from her in waves. “I presumed the first three months of the term would have been sufficient. Mr. Weasley has already enrolled in the Auror training program,” she said, and Harry’s stomach sank. “And though it isn’t due for weeks, Ms. Granger has already submitted her application for the Wizengamot internship, for which she is quite well qualified.” Hermione blushed with embarrassed pleasure. “We have also discussed several entry-level Ministry positions she might apply for as a precaution.” Harry’s stomach dropped another notch. “Even Ms. Weasley has found the opportunity outside of coursework and Quidditch to discuss her goals with me. Why is it that they all seem to have found the time to, as you put it, ‘give it a think’ and make appointments with me when you haven’t?” Harry’s stomach plummeted to his toes.

“I, er, well…” 

“He was just saying that he was planning to make an appointment this week,” Hermione chimed in uncertainly, and every head in the vicinity swiveled to face her. “Weren’t you Harry?”

Harry really wasn’t. At the start of term, McGonagall had informed them that each fifth, seventh, and eighth year student would be required to meet with their Head of House or the Headmistress for career consultation. Several weeks ago, she had imposed a deadline, offering reminders during Transfiguration lessons as the date drew closer. She had even personally reminded Harry at breakfast the previous week, a conversation he had found troublesome rather than helpful as it conflicted with his aversion to thinking about the future. Whenever he imagined following Ron into Auror training, something twinged painfully between his ribs, making him almost certain that law enforcement wasn’t the right path for him, but when he tried to consider alternatives, his head filled with a buzzing emptiness that made him feel worse about the whole thing. 

Peering up at the cross expression on McGonagall’s face, he came to the conclusion that now might not be the best time to explain his dilemma, opting instead to respond, “Er, yes. I was.”

Her nostrils flared in disbelief. “Excellent,” she said dryly. “I hope you appreciate the importance of discussing such matters, Mr. Potter, especially if you’re still undecided about your future.” Her expression softened minutely as she examined him over square spectacles. “I aim to help you sort through your best options. I trust you’ll find my advice beneficial.” 

As she retreated to the staff table, he exhaled a breath of air he hadn’t realized he was holding. Ginny smiled sympathetically and held out a consolatory piece of bacon. He accepted the offering, nibbling at one edge and wondering absently why every Weasley carried a deep-seated belief that food cured all ills.

“You’re not planning on doing Auror training next year?” Ron asked, bewildered.

Ginny raised her eyebrows, nudging Harry’s knee encouragingly, but in a moment of doubt, he turned back to Ron’s pleading eyes and said, “I’m still a bit undecided.” When this didn’t appear to comfort Ron, he added awkwardly, “Just, er, considering my options.” He pointedly ignored Ginny’s sigh, setting down the largely untouched slice of bacon.

Hermione reached across the table and gave his hand a brief squeeze. “I’m so sorry for jumping in, Harry. You just seemed…” she trailed off.

“Lost?” Ginny suggested, and Hermione shrugged, nodding sheepishly.

“It’s fine,” Harry assured her. And it was. If anything, it had probably bought him time before McGonagall cornered him again.

“What are you going to say when you meet with her this coming week?” Hermione asked.

“Er. I’m not actually sure that I’ll have the time to meet with her _this_ week.”

“Harry.” Hermione looked at him squarely. “You’ve got to meet with her at some point. You can’t avoid thinking about difficult things forever. This is important.”

Harry narrowed his eyes. “I’m aware it’s important.” His chest clenched painfully as if to emphasize the point.

“Relax, ‘Mione,” Ron said. “Harry’s already had McGonagall harping on him this morning. He doesn’t need you doing it, too.”

Pursing her lips, she buried herself in her Transfiguration notes again.

Ron turned to him. “McGonagall was bang out of order mate, calling you out in front of everyone like that. But it’s okay. You’ll enroll in the Auror program soon enough, and then it won’t matter anyway, right?”

Harry grunted noncommittally, and although Ron was mollified, Ginny threw him the biggest _Oh, really?_ look he’d ever seen. Not eager to handle her disapproval at the moment, his eyes fell upon Hermione, who had glanced up from her notes with familiar knowing concern, but before she could comment, Draco rushed into Great Hall, his eyes wide and anxious. He strode towards the Gryffindor table in a panic.

“I need to speak with you,” he hissed at Harry.

“Okay,” Harry responded, baffled by Draco’s tone, and when Draco jerked his head towards the door, Harry stood to follow. His pace was apparently not quick enough, however, because long fingers latched onto Harry’s elbow and tugged him through the entrance. He cast a backward glance as they exited the Great Hall, ascertaining that a large contingent of its inhabitants had stopped what they were doing to watch them leave. 

“You know you’re only feeding the gossip mill by dragging me out of here, yes?” Harry asked, as he stumbled into the main hall.

Draco made no answer except to pull him down the first connecting corridor and shove him into an alcove. “Longbottom saw me.”

“Saw you…?”

“In your dorm, you idiot. Before I left.” Draco’s eyes were manic.

Harry sifted through the dregs of the morning, getting lost for a moment in the distractingly wonderful memory of Draco in his bed before clawing his way back to what had happened after he left. Harry had reentered the room to find his bed empty and Neville carefully doing up his Gryffindor tie, midway through his morning routine. He’d given Harry an odd searching look, which Harry had returned with a brisk nod, and they had both resumed their own preparations for the day. Harry had left minutes later without so much as a word passing between them. 

“Focus, Harry.” Draco jabbed him in the ribs, and he blinked. Draco looked like he was going to be sick. “Can we convince him he was hallucinating? Slip him a Forgetfulness Potion? Better yet, _Obliviate_ the wanker.”

“I draw the line at Obliviating my dormmates. Mainly because I’m sure it’s illegal,” Harry teased, “but also because it’s completely unnecessary.”

Draco’s expression was equal parts irritated and skeptical. “That still leaves us with two viable options,” he grumbled.

“You don’t need to worry about Neville,” Harry stated calmly.

Draco’s eyebrows arched beneath his hairline. “How can I not worry about him? This is a fucking disaster. Too many people know, Harry.”

Harry raised an eyebrow in return. “Like your dormmates? Were you planning on telling me that bit of information, if you hadn’t let it slip this morning?”

Draco scowled. “I would have told you. Plus, you didn’t seem to mind earlier. You’re only put out now because one of _your_ people knows.”

“My people? You mean a Gryffindor?”

Draco made a noncommittal noise.

Harry laughed. “Because Slytherins are renowned for their trustworthiness.” 

Draco cut him a scathing look before sighing deeply and running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t tell you because I thought it might upset you.” He tapped his toe nervously. “I didn’t want you to be angry with me.”

Staring into wide grey eyes that were suddenly disarmingly vulnerable, all of Harry’s frustration – with Skeeter articles and oblique Malfoy interactions, with uncertain futures and stupid fucking nightmares about stupid fucking wars – drained from him in seconds. “Look,” Harry said gently, “I don’t care that your dormmates know, as long as they plan on keeping their mouths shut. I’ll make sure Neville does the same.” He offered Draco a small, reassuring smile. “It’s not going to be a problem, though. Neville is… he’s trustworthy. He didn’t even say anything about it when I walked back into the dorm this morning. I just assumed you’d left without incident.”

Draco still looked uncertain.

“Truly. It’s going to be fine. I’ll have a chat with him when I get back to breakfast. Some arsehole pulled me out of the Great Hall before I could finish eating.” Harry smirked, kicking Draco’s shoe lightly.

“Only because some arsehole wouldn’t answer my messages,” Draco bit back with an almost-smile. He lifted eyebrow. “Honestly, Potter, what was the point of Granger charming that parchment if you aren’t going to look at it?”

Harry felt a sharp pang of guilt. “Point taken.” He chewed the inside of his cheek, then cocked his head to the side. “I’m ‘Potter’ when I annoy you, am I?”

“You always annoy me,” Draco responded without pause.

Harry laughed. “Good.” Before he could fret too much about the perils of honesty, he added, “Er, for full disclosure, Ginny knows. And technically Luna, too. Although, I doubt anyone would believe Luna, so I’m not sure that really counts.”

Draco’s eyes widened and his nostrils flared, which might have been comical had it not been directed at Harry. “Good fucking grief, Potter. Why don’t you just shout it to the whole school and be done with it?”

“Because an advert in the _Prophet_ seemed classier?” Harry peeked up at Draco, and he could practically see him fume. A sudden sadness crept through him. “Would it really be so bad if people knew? I’m not ashamed of this – of you.”

Draco’s eyes warmed, and he hooked his index finger into Harry’s hand. “I’m not either, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready for the barrage of insults and hexes that would be thrown my way should this become public.” He stared at his feet, looking for a moment so endearingly unsure that Harry had to resist the urge to kiss him. “I’m – I’m just not ready yet, all right? We don’t even know what we’re doing.” 

Harry scowled, wanting to argue that he _did_ in fact know what he was doing, but it was only true in the in the haziest of terms. Neither of them had exactly made any declarations of intent beyond “let’s keep doing this,” and Harry hadn’t yet succeeded in categorizing how he felt about the insufferable prat. Only that whatever it was, he felt a lot of it. 

“Inviting public scrutiny would only ruin the last few weeks,” Draco said definitively, looking up at Harry with imploring eyes, and although Harry wasn’t sure he agreed with Draco, he could see the sense in his words.

An invisible weight lifted from him. He hadn’t realized how concerned he was that Draco was embarrassed by their relationship until his anxiety had evaporated, and he felt as if he might float away with it. He nodded. “I suppose that’s reasonable. Especially after what Skeeter published this morning.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “What did Skeeter publish this morning?” Harry hesitated, sensing Draco’s panic rising once more. “What did Skeeter publish this morning, Harry?” Draco asked more sharply.

“Just an article about you talking with Hermione yesterday,” Harry said, not quite meeting Draco’s eyes.

“Fantastic.” Draco pulled at his hair, and Harry considered mentioning that he’d mussed it beyond repair at this point. “The headline tomorrow will read _Malfoy Drags the Savior to the Corridor for a Spot of Torture_ or something equally depraved. The entire Great Hall will be consumed in bloody hate mail, and it’s all your fault,” he exclaimed, agitating his hair again. Harry raised a disgruntled eyebrow at him. “Fine. It’s mostly your fault,” Draco relented.

Harry grabbed his hands, pulling them to his sides. “Stop that.”

“Why?” Draco asked with such petulance that Harry nearly laughed.

“Because your hair is starting to look like mine, that’s why. Also, it won’t be that bad. We’re allowed to be friends. That’s no one’s business. Rita Skeeter can write whatever she wants about it.”

“Easy for you to say. You won’t be on the receiving end of a hundred Howlers.” Draco leaned against the wall of the alcove, dramatically thunking his head against stone in the process.

“No, but you forget that I have been before. People will get bored. They always do,” Harry replied with undue confidence.

Draco chewed on his bottom lip, then sighed. “We should go back. But you’ll talk to Longbottom?”

“I will.” And before he could really think about what he was doing, he darted forward and pressed his lips against Draco’s. Draco startled beneath him, making a quiet noise, but he kissed back, his arms twining around Harry’s lower back to tug him close for a moment before he pulled away.

“What was that?” Draco asked, peering into the alcove across from them, his eyebrows knitting.

“What was what?” Harry’s breath was embarrassingly short for such a brief kiss.

“I thought I heard something.” He turned his eyes on Harry. “This is the opposite of helpful, you know. We can’t snog in corridors, Harry,” he admonished, but the statement was undercut by the healthy dose of desire blowing his pupils wide.

Harry nodded, half of his brain properly ashamed by his actions but the other half greedily demanding that they snog in _every corridor_. “Let’s go then, shall we? Before I do something really stupid,” he said, pleased by the undisguised flash of interest across Draco’s face.

Harry had one foot out of the alcove when, quite by surprise, he found himself backed against the wall, loosely trapped on either side by Draco’s arms. Looking around briefly to make sure they were alone, Draco kissed Harry quickly but deeply, pressing every part of his body against Harry’s during the brief seconds of contact. As he pulled away, Harry chased his mouth with his own, feeling drunkenly dazed, and Draco smirked before continuing out of the alcove as if nothing happened. Once he’d come to his senses, Harry trailed a second behind.

They reentered the Great Hall to surreptitious glances and muted whispers, which almost stopped Harry in his tracks, but Draco strutted towards the Slytherin table as if he hadn’t noticed anything unusual, the only sign of distress the soft swing of his tightly clenched fists. Channeling his inner Malfoy, Harry marched back to his own table, albeit with far less poise than any Malfoy in the past five centuries. Instead of returning to his own seat, he sat down next to Neville, who was hunkered down with a forgotten slice of toast in one hand and a quill in the other. His Transfiguration book lay open in front of him, his eyes flying over each line of text as his mouth unconsciously shaped around each word. 

“Hey.”

Neville jumped, turning wide eyes on Harry. “Merlin, you almost gave me a heart attack, Harry. Everything all right?”

“Er, yeah.” Harry had expected Neville to be wary or embarrassed or defensive, but now faced with the calm, expectant person in front of him, he couldn’t quite work out how to broach the subject. ‘ _I’m sorry that you had to see my Slytherin boyfriend, the one who’s been relentlessly cruel to you for seven years, climbing out of my bed this morning, but could you please not tell anyone?_ ’ seemed somehow lacking.

“Listen,” he began, but Neville cut him off.

“I didn’t mean to see, Harry.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. Neville thought it was his fault? “I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean for you to see either, if it’s any consolation,” he said, and Neville’s lips twitched. “I guess I was hoping I could convince you not to tell anyone.” He said it like a question, pausing for a moment to stare briefly at his fingers. “It’s just, he’d probably be murdered if anyone found out, and I doubt they’d be much kinder to me.” More silence. “I understand if you need to talk about it, though. Ron and Hermione and Ginny all know, so I’m sure any of them would be willing to –” 

“Harry.”

Harry looked up, relieved he could stop blathering like an idiot.

“I wasn’t planning on telling anyone,” Neville said as if it should have been obvious.

“You weren’t?”

He shook his head. “It’s not my business.”

Harry gaped at him incredulously. “But I had him in the dorm.”

“That was a bit surprising,” Neville conceded.

“And it’s Draco Malfoy.”

He shrugged. “Well, yes, but –”

“And you’ve never gotten on with him.”

“Yes, and neither have you, but –”

“And –”

“Harry.”

Harry closed his mouth. 

Neville looked exasperated and amused all at once. “Are you trying to talk me into telling someone?” he asked with raised eyebrows.

“Er, no.”

“Because I don’t think Malfoy would like that very much,” he added, grinning.

Harry smiled back. “I’m just surprised, I guess.”

“After what you’ve been through over the last few years, I reckon you’re owed a bit of privacy.”

“We all are,” Harry amended quietly.

Neville tilted his head, smiling sadly. “Not that we’ll get it.”

Harry snorted. “No, we probably won’t.”

“At least, you won’t.” Neville gestured toward the morning’s Prophet, which was sitting on the table in front of them. “Clearly.” He smiled apologetically.

Harry groaned. “Thanks for that.”

Neville glanced around nervously. “If it’ll make you feel any better, I’ll, er, let you in on a secret, too,” he said, lowering his voice.

Harry raised his eyebrows.

“I’ve been seeing Hannah for a few weeks now.”

Harry quickly scanned through the few Hannahs he knew. There was the one in their year, but Harry was fairly certain there was also a Ravenclaw sixth year and a Slytherin third year. For reasons of propriety, Harry hoped it wasn’t her. “Er, which…?”

“Abbot. From Hufflepuff,” Neville responded quickly, blushing slightly and staring at the Transfiguration book in front of him.

Harry nodded as her cheerful face sprang to mind. He liked Hannah. She was kind and had always been enthusiastic in the DA. He could picture her encouragement and easygoing demeanor blending nicely with Neville’s steadiness and loyalty. He smiled. “That’s great.”

“We’re trying to keep it quiet for now, too.” Neville shrugged. “Early stages, you know?” Harry nodded. “So now we both know secrets that we can’t tell,” Neville added, and although Harry appreciated the gesture, he was unconvinced that it put them on level footing.

“So…” Neville paused, nervously tapping his quill against the edge of his Transfiguration book, “that was him that we heard last night, then?”

Harry smiled grimly, and Neville winced.

“I can see why you had him with you,” Neville said quietly. “No one should have to go through that alone.” The way he said it gave Harry the distinct impression that Neville had experience with just that. He was torn between offering some sort of encouragement and trying to change the subject, but before he could decide, Neville’s clouded expression cleared, and he smiled apologetically at Harry. “I should probably get back to studying. I’m truly and utterly screwed if McGonagall gives a quiz today.”

Harry groaned. “Me too.” He made to stand up, but then turned back. “And Nev? Thanks. You’re a good friend.” The words tumbled from his lips unchecked, and he panicked briefly, worried that he might be swallowed by his embarrassment, but seconds later, Neville’s face lit up in surprise.

“You are too, Harry,” he returned, and Harry felt himself blush as he slid over to his own seat. 

Ginny looked up from her breakfast, her raised eyebrow posing too many questions that Harry didn’t want to answer just now, so deflecting with a deliberately cryptic smile, he rifled through his school bag instead. In his periphery, she reached for more bacon, issuing a dramatic sigh for his benefit, which moments later morphed into a groan as trays began vanishing from the table. Harry snorted. He pulled out his Transfiguration notes, and the Charmed parchment tumbled out with it, fluttering to his lap. He picked it up.

**I’m here.**

**Let me in, Potter.**

**For heaven’s sake, I’m just coming in.**

**Can you meet me outside the Great Hall?**

He sighed, guilt churning in the pit of his stomach once more. If he hadn’t been thick and had remembered to check the parchment occasionally, they could have avoided a great deal of embarrassment and scrutiny. Pulling out a quill, he scribbled a quick, _Sorry_ , and he could almost hear Draco’s voice in his head telling him, _For someone who’s banned apologies, you certainly fling them about freely._ Harry rolled his eyes, his mouth twisting into a smile of its own volition. Hearing voices, even voices with smooth drawls and maddening messages, was probably not a sign of sanity.

Ginny cleared her throat. “When you’re finished rolling your eyes at whatever strange thing is happening inside your head,” she said, smirking, “could you let me know whether or not you’re going to finish that?” Her fingertips inched towards the forgotten piece of bacon still sitting on his plate.

He gave her a calculating look. “Oh, I don’t know,” he teased. “I earned this for my troubles.”

She scoffed. “You earned it because I thought you were going to come clean to my brother.” She shot a furtive glance at Ron, but he was immersed in some sort of pleading argument with Hermione, his chin resting on her shoulder. “Which you didn’t. That’s grounds for bacon revocation.”

“It wasn’t the right time,” Harry said, picking up the piece of bacon. “Haven’t you already had like twenty of these?”

She sent him a scathing look. “How about a trade. That piece of bacon for no questions asked about that weird little display this morning?”

“What weird little display?” Harry asked facetiously.

“Exactly,” she said through a grin, and he relented, tossing the slice of bacon onto her plate. She smiled. “Oh, thank Merlin. Practice was fucking brutal yesterday. I can’t feel my quads and I don’t think I’ve ever been this hungry in my life.” She swiftly bit the slice of bacon in half. “We went for five hours,” she grumbled.

Harry considered pointing out that as captain, she had a certain amount of control over the length of their practices, but gave it up as a lost cause, instead shaking his head indulgently.

“You know you’re going to have to tell him at some point, right?” she asked, her expression serious this time.

Harry sighed. “Yes, I know.”

“I can’t decide if I want to be there for that conversation or be miles away,” she said, and Harry glared at her. She sniggered.

“Be there for what?” Ron asked, apparently done harassing Hermione.

“Nothing,” Ginny said hastily. “Butt out.”

“You two should head to class,” Hermione suggested, staring at Ginny and cutting off Ron’s indignant reply.

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “We should?”

“Yes, we should,” Ron said, giving her a sharp look, which Hermione underscored with an exaggerated nod.

Harry watched his friends warily, uneased by whatever scheme they were hatching. As Ron tugged Ginny away from the table, he mouthed _sorry_.

He turned back to Hermione, already suspicious, and without any preamble, she pulled a book from her bag and slid it in front of him, watching his face expectantly.

“ _The History of Fire Slug Racing_ ,” he read out loud, then looked up, confused. “Erm. Thank you.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s not really a book about Fire Slugs. It’s…” Her face grew pink. “Well, just open it.”

Flipping open the front cover, the title page displayed a vastly different title. _Two Wands_. Harry’s eyes trailed down the page. _An exploration of the past, present, and future of homosexuality in the wizarding world_. When he looked back up at her, he felt as though his face was swallowed in heat.

“I figured you’d prefer an innocuous title on the outside.” She fiddled with the straps of her bag, and it was somehow heartening to realize that she was embarrassed, too. “Although, the actual text is fascinating. The chapter on Fire Slug oppression makes some excellent points about free will, and the section on Fire Seed mining and habitat loss is...” she hesitated, seeing Harry’s expression. “Perhaps that’s not the point right now.”

“You got me a book?”

She shrugged. “Neither Ron nor I are well equipped to discuss safety or logistics with you, and, well, just promise me you’ll read it?”

“Oh, god.”

“At least flip through. There are diagrams, and some of them are fairly –”

“Oh, god,” he said louder this time.

She flushed again, looking away. “Well. Anyway.”

“Hermione?” he said, and she glanced cautiously back towards him. “Thank you for this horrifying, horrifying gift.”

Looking remarkably cheerier but still sporting a heavy blush, she picked up her satchel and stood. “Come on, then, or we’ll be late to Transfiguration.”

“Yeah, I’d hate to be late to fail my quiz,” he grumbled.

“Oh, I doubt she’ll give our class a quiz today. It’s hardly a surprise anymore, is it?”

Harry gaped at her. “Then why did you make us study for hours yesterday?”

“How else was I going to get you lot to revise for N.E.W.T.s early on?” She flashed him a quick grin.

Harry stared at her, stunned by her devious streak, as he always was when it peeked its head out. As they left the Great Hall, Harry followed her trail of probing questions, each more disturbing than the last, all the way to Transfiguration. At some point during his attempts at deflection, he came to the unsettling realization that Hermione might have made an excellent Slytherin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait. Partly, I was traveling, which stole a bit of writing time. Then as I began writing this chapter, I had the realization that the end of this story is creeping up on me. It was a strange feeling. Up until this point, I had all these vague ideas floating around my head, some of which I even wrote down on paper under the guise of "planning," but my realization caused a fair amount of panic that I might mess up parts of the ending by not actually sketching out the remaining chapters. So that's what I did. It took some time, but it's all there now, sitting prettily in my notebook just waiting to be typed.
> 
> Thank you for being patient, kind, and just completely lovely, supportive people, all of you. I am still several chapters away, but I'm already excited and terrified to wrap up all of Harry and Draco's struggles.
> 
> Lastly (sorry for a long note!), the next post will likely be a double-chapter posting.
> 
> Cheers to all of you!


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